by Peter Ralph
‘I’m sorry; it must have been terrible for you. Charles is certain it was the poisons being pumped into the ground that killed Charlie.’ Steve paused to let his words sink in. ‘I guess you’d know better than anyone whether that’s true or not.’
‘Steven,’ Dr George said, giving the younger man a wan smile, ‘when have you ever known me to gossip or to disclose any information about my patients?’
‘I … I di … didn’t think …’
‘You didn’t think it applied after a patient had passed away? Well it does. You’re going to have to wait for the coroner to deliver his findings. And, Steven, today is not the day to be hunting up a story.’
‘Sorry George. I didn’t mean to overstep the mark. Don’t forget we’ve got the final of the indoor cricket on Tuesday night.’ Steve was anxious to change the subject.
‘I’ll be there.’ The doctor looked down at his watch. ‘I have to get back to the surgery.’
Charles and Faye Paxton had made the agonising decision to donate Charlie’s organs, after being told that those not affected by cancer could save the lives of other little children. There was a rider, though: Paxton’s insistence that a full autopsy be carried out and that the doctors give the pathologist a letter from him in which he outlined his suspicions. This was a most unusual request but the medicos were desperate to harvest Charlie’s organs and saw no ethical impediments.
There were other towns in the Fisher Valley but Paisley was its unofficial capital and boasted the largest pub, a three-person police station and the only courthouse in the valley. Its population was not quite twenty thousand but it also housed the auction yards; farmers, graziers and racehorse owners came from all over Australia for the cattle and thoroughbred auctions. It was a peaceful town in the geographic centre of the valley, which was surrounded by mountains to the north, east and west and by lush rolling hills and a koala-inhabited eucalypt forest to the south. A small river with numerous tributaries wound its way down the mountains and meandered through the valley’s lush pastures, paddocks and vineyards. The only blemish on this beautiful landscape was the coalfields, but they were on the outskirts of the valley and did not deter the millions of tourists looking for peace, harmony, fresh crisp country air, fine food, great restaurants and, of course, tastings of the superb local wines.
In early 2002 the NSW Government granted an exploratory mining licence to a subsidiary of a large public company, which sought to find gas on crown land at the extreme northern perimeter of the valley. The locals paid little attention when an enormous drilling rig seemed to grow day by day at the mine site and many hoped the discovery of gas would bring them new wealth. A short time later, Clean Energy & Gas Limited made an announcement to the Australian Stock Exchange that it had discovered a potentially huge reserve of coal seam gas. Life in Paisley and the Fisher Valley changed forever that day.
The tragic death of little Charlie Paxton in 2010 symbolised that change.
Chapter 2
Donny Drayton was a thirty-year-old former dreamer. After completing a business studies degree, he had joined Energy & Gas Limited as a junior management executive. EGL was the largest user of fossil fuels in Australia but, in an attempt to improve its tarnished image, it made some small investments in wind and solar power and added ‘Clean’ to its name. It then launched a major advertising campaign espousing its green credentials and young Donny, who was looking to save the world, decided that this was just the type of company he wanted to carve out a career with. He wasn’t half as smart as he thought he was but he had outstanding qualities that CEGL shrewdly detected: everyone liked him, he was personable, gregarious and one of those rare people who instantly captured the trust of others. CEGL was quick to move him out of management and into customer relations, where he was charged with pacifying disgruntled customers, a job he handled admirably but which provided him with little satisfaction and made no contribution to saving the planet. When an opportunity arose to play a role in developing clean gas he had jumped at it and accepted an appointment as a land access consultant. This involved convincing landowners that it would be beneficial to let CEGL explore for coal seam gas on their properties.
Before commencing his new job, Donny was put through an intensive training course covering the legalities of entering landowners’ properties, the obtaining of licences, the actual drilling process, the reinstatement of the property and, of course, the documentation. He was then instructed on how to present to landowners in such a way that the information he provided was nebulous and that full disclosure was only made when it benefited the company. He was told that providing too much information would unnecessarily confuse landowners, so he should aim to make his presentations as simple as possible. It was stressed that the representations he made were largely unimportant so long as the documentation, which had been prepared by a leading firm of lawyers, was properly executed by landowners. By the time Donny phoned to make an appointment to see his first grazier, he knew more about the relevant law than most lawyers.
CEGL and the other gas companies, after identifying prospective tracts of land, applied to the government for easily-obtainable exploration licences. After the exploration licences were granted, CEGL still had to negotiate with landowners, farmers, graziers and viticulturists before it could enter their properties and drill bore holes to test the gas flow. Failing this, CEGL had to make application to the Planning Minister under Section 3A of the Planning Act, which usually resulted in an arbitrated access agreement, but this was time-consuming and costly.
Donny’s job was simple: he just had to convince landowners to sign access agreements that would allow CEGL to come onto their properties and sink exploration wells. The first step was a phone call to arrange a no-obligation chat to explain how CEGL could assist. He had parameters within which he had to work and usually offered $1500 a year rental per well but could go as high as $5000. He could sweeten this by offering to replace and rebuild roads, tracks and fences on the landowner’s property. These offers were usually made with verbal undertakings that there would be minimal disruption and that, even if commercial quantities of gas were found, it would not necessarily result in the sinking of production wells.
Land access consultants were instructed to negotiate with landowners separately and the offers made to obtain access agreements were often markedly different from neighbour to neighbour. An executed access agreement was nearly always accompanied by a CEGL-prepared confidentiality agreement that precluded the landowner from discussing the terms of the agreement with any other party. Donny informed the landowners that the confidentiality agreements were to protect them.
Donny never really understood his popularity, mistakenly putting it down to what he saw as his quick-wittedness and intelligence. He wasn’t handsome but his face was sensitive, delicately boned and, in a way, pleasant and he was blessed with a smile that could light up a room. But what made him so well liked was his sincerity, that he was unthreatening, hardly ever raised his voice and persuaded rather than argued.
Donny was far more successful than his colleagues and had negotiated countless access agreements on the Spurling Downs in Queensland. However, the landowners of the Fisher Valley were proving far harder to crack, having banded together to form a Protective Alliance, whose sole purpose was to make sure the gas companies did not get a toehold in the valley.
This morning, his bitch of a boss, Moira Raymond, had put a rocket under him and the other land access consultants, telling them in her charming way, ‘You’d better pull your fingers out and get some access agreements signed or you’ll be drawing unemployment benefits next month.’ He was still pondering her threat as he got out of his car and opened the gate to old Artie Cleever’s property. He was determined that Artie, whom he had been working on for months, would finally sign an access agreement today.
Donny had believed in CEGL and, even after he suspected that he was telling lies, the company assured him that they weren’t harmful and were to protect land
owners. He didn’t know how it had occurred, but over the years the little lies had become big lies and the morals he’d once been blessed with had all but disappeared. Now, there was nothing he would not say or do to convince a landowner to sign an access agreement, but at night he was tormented and could not sleep.
CEGL scientists said that the methane extracted was colourless and odourless but Donny had been at well-heads where the leaking methane vapour was visible and sometimes the others gases released with it stank to the high heavens. He had seen more than half-a-dozen farmers collapse after breathing in the fumes around well-heads and he had heard and believed the stories of those who suffered blood noses, headaches and strange welts on their bodies. Donny always drove around well-head areas with his windows tightly wound up and hated it when he had to make follow-up calls to landowners after gas wells had been sunk on their properties.
While Moira Raymond had been mouthing off that morning, he had momentarily thought about telling her where she could stick her job but, as always, his generous salary, fully-maintained late-model car and large expense account managed to get the better of what was left of his conscience.
Chapter 3
Paxton did not utter a word on the way home from the funeral; instead he moped and schemed in silence. As he pulled the big Merc up to the front gates of the farm, a pitch-black dog came out of the shadows, whimpering like a baby. Paxton got out of the car and kicked the gates open in anger, which set Cosmos howling. ‘You miss him boy, don’t you?’ he said, ruffling the massive dog’s head. ‘You know our little mate’s gone, don’t you?’ This seemed to settle the dog but his face was sad and his eyes seemed full of tears and for a moment Paxton’s anger subsided. He drove slowly up the long driveway to the house and the dog loped along next to the car, howling. Daylight was fading and the curtains had been drawn since Charlie’s passing. Faye switched the hallway lights on and went out to the kitchen while Paxton went into the lounge room, grabbed a glass and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and settled himself into his favourite recliner, with Cosmos at his feet.
A few minutes later Faye came into the room. As she was about to turn the lights on, Paxton growled, ‘Leave them off.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry love, I didn’t mean to snap. I just want to sit here in the dark. Would you like something to drink?’
Faye did not drink alcohol but she envied her husband’s source of escape. ‘Would you like anything to eat?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ he said, although he had not eaten for the past three days.
‘I’m going to bed then.’ She hoped she’d find some solace in the Valium that Dr George had prescribed.
‘Good night,’ he muttered, downing a double shot of whiskey in one huge, throat-burning gulp. Two hours later he stared down at the empty bottle. He was surprised, because the alcohol had had no effect; he was clear-headed, not in the slightest tipsy and, when he stood up to go to the liquor cabinet to get another bottle of Jack’s fine brew, he did not falter. Perhaps it was the coldness of his hate, his need for revenge or the plan that he had hatched. He settled back in the recliner, resting one foot on Cosmos’s head. There was a grunt of approval. ‘A few more drinks boy and then we’ll show those mongrels a thing or two.’
It was nearly midnight when he slunk out through the front door, his hand tight around Cosmos’s mouth. ‘Shoosh boy,’ he whispered. The cold air hit him hard and his attempt to creep silently down to the shed failed dismally when he stumbled and crashed to the ground. He glanced back at the house but fortunately no lights came on. Once inside the shed, he picked up a couple of five-gallon drums of petrol, a pair of metal cutters and a sledge hammer and stowed them in the back of the pickup truck. As always, the keys were in the ignition and he patted the passenger seat for Cosmos to join him in the cabin.
It was a moonless night and Paxton stayed on the dirt tracks, carefully working his way along the twenty kilometres or so to his target. He was decidedly woozy and rolled the window down in a forlorn attempt to clear his head. As he did so, he heard the rushing of the Blaxland River and knew they were close. He rounded a bend and there was the monstrosity less than five hundred metres from the lifeline that supplied the town’s drinking water. He was inebriated and angry but even stone cold sober he could not fathom the logic that had allowed this poisonous mess of gas-producing pipes and valves to be sunk so deep into the ground and so close to the river. He pulled the truck off the track and parked behind a clump of bushes and then toiled up the hill, carrying a five-gallon drum in each hand, the sledge hammer under his arm pit and the pair of metal cutters in his back pocket.
Drawing closer, he could hear the well-head sputtering and hissing like some venomous caged reptile as methane escaped from its poorly-tightened valves. Head spinning and gasping for breath, Paxton sat down to rest and Cosmos snuggled up to him and licked his face. The light breeze coming over the well-head picked up the disgusting odour of hydrogen sulphide, better known as rotten egg gas, and carried it towards him, causing him to cough and violently dry retch. ‘We’re about to show ’em boy. I can’t bring Charlie back but I’ll make their life misery before I’m through.’
He carefully cut an opening in the galvanised mesh fence and pulled himself through and onto the pad that supported the well-head. Giving no thought to sparks or his safety, he lifted the sledge hammer above his head and with two mighty blows smashed the metering equipment and the valves. Methane surged from the broken pipes. He reached through the opening and picked up the drums of petrol, tipping one over the pipes, the well-head, and the separator. Then he tipped the other over the pad and the ground, clumsily spilling the final few drops on his arm as he backed some fifteen metres away from the enclosure.
‘We’re gonna have to run like the wind when I drop this,’ he said, striking a match. A burst of flame removed every hair on his right forearm and then snaked across the ground as he stumbled drunkenly down the hill. He reached the pickup and looked back to see the petrol doing no more than burning superficially. He kicked a tyre and hung his head in disappointment. As he did, the ground shook and flames shot fifty metres into the air. Cosmos, who had stopped to sniff some grass, bounded down the hill and leaped into the back of the pickup without breaking stride. ‘Yeah, that’ll teach you bastards!’ Paxton yelled, as he revved the pickup into action and drove slowly down the hill without lights, not increasing speed until he reached the gravel road. Glancing in the rear-vision mirror he caught sight of tail-lights but, when he looked a split second later, there was nothing. Maybe it was the whiskey?
Paisley shook, the streets lit up and the locals raced out of their houses and stared, fascinated by the vivid red glow in the sky. Then the smaller after-explosions started and more flames erupted into the sky. Senior Constable Josh Gibson, a ten-year police veteran, phoned his offsider, Constable Sandi Carlisle, and arranged to pick her up in five minutes. As he raced across town, siren blaring, he saw cars being reversed out of driveways and he groaned, knowing that many of the locals would be heading up into the hills. Josh had been born and raised in Paisley and when, after a few years in Sydney, the opportunity had arisen to get posted back home, he had jumped at it. Married with three kids, he could think of no better place in the world to bring them up. While only in his mid-thirties, Josh had let himself go since returning home and this was apparent by his heavy jowls, triple chin, and generous girth. In the six months that Sandi had been in Paisley, this was the first time anything remotely exciting had occurred and she was waiting at her front gate as Josh brought the van to a screeching halt. She had barely had time to brush her long, curly, auburn hair. Despite the lack of make-up, her face was glowing. She gave Josh a flashing smile as she strapped her willowy body in with the seatbelt. ‘What happened?’
‘I’m guessing one of the gas wells near the river blew up.’
‘Holy hell!’
The only sealed road out of town that went up into the hills to the south was clogged with locals. Josh flicked on the siren and flashi
ng lights and sped up the wrong side of the road, past the slow moving convoy of gawkers. ‘Go Josh,’ Sandi screamed. ‘God, this was what I dreamed police life would be like.’
Josh and Sandi drew closer to the red light in the sky which was accompanied by sporadic spurts of yellow and deep rumbles. Josh swung the van off the road and onto the gravel track, where the rear wheels spun wildly and threw stones everywhere. They flew around a bend, nearly smashing into one of the many cars already parked at the bottom of the hill.
Josh glanced over at Sandi. Her face was lit up, totally entranced by the flames. He had never thought her particularly attractive but now she was flushed and her dark brown eyes shone with an almost unnatural intensity. ‘Let’s see if anyone knows what happened.’
‘It exploded,’ she giggled. ‘You know the locals have been saying something like this would eventually happen.’
As Josh got out of the van, an older man yelled, ‘Hey Josh, young Billy McGregor’s been looking for you. Hey Billy, get over here.’
A skinny, scruffy kid with long, dirty blond hair, wearing a black polo shirt and faded blue jeans, sauntered over from the small crowd. He was holding hands with a pretty little blue-eyed redhead with freckles, a button nose and a silver stud in her right cheek. Following close behind was Steve Forrest, notepad in hand and recorder in his shirt pocket. ‘Hello Karen,’ Josh said. ‘Do your parents know where you are? Hell, Steve, you sure got here in a hurry.’
Karen grinned. ‘I dunno Josh. You’re not gonna tell ’em are ya?’
‘G’day Josh,’ Steve said.
‘He won’t tell ’em,’ the boy interrupted and then, looking over at Sandi. ‘Hey Josh, ya partner’s a bit of a fox. Does ya wife know about her?’