Dirty Fracking Business

by Peter Ralph

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Harbrow said, knowing that she wouldn’t dare defy him.

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ she said, not trying to conceal her annoyance at having been interrupted. ‘But what we can be absolutely certain of is that, if we issue legal proceedings against him, he’ll have his researchers investigate us and the history of the industry and then he’ll unleash a sustained campaign that will have us in the news for weeks, possibly months. For that reason I cannot support litigation.’

  In the sixteen years he had run the company, Harbrow had never suffered a defeat in the boardroom and there was nothing gracious about the way he took it. ‘Fools,’ he muttered, already planning how he would get rid of the three non-executive directors who had voted against him; but his real fury was reserved for Moira, who had openly betrayed him. Progress with access agreements and Part 3A applications in the Fisher Valley had been painfully slow and she had been unable to control the local press. He may not be able to remove her from the board, but he certainly could relieve her of her executive responsibilities. Perhaps it was time to move her on.

  Sir Richard’s mobile rang and he apologised for answering and then apologised again when he finished the call. ‘I’m sorry, a minor emergency has arisen at home and I won’t be able to stay, but there are two matters I’d like to raise before leaving. That James fellow said that the gas companies are telling landowners lies to induce them to sign land access agreements. I don’t know whether it’s true, but I’d be very disappointed if our land access consultants are telling lies.’

  The three architects of the company’s policy, Harbrow, Llewellyn and Moira, looked at each other, none wishing to respond. Then Harbrow said, ‘Sir Richard, I can categorically say that I’ve never heard one of our land access consultants tell a landowner a lie.’ Given that he was never in the field, this was hardly surprising.

  ‘Thank goodness. I’m relieved. Janet, I’d like that minuted. I’d also like to know whether Nick Gould losing government will adversely impact the company.’

  ‘I’d rather the devil we know,’ Harbrow said, ‘but Nick’s run his race and we just have to move on. The good thing is, the conservatives and Labor have a bipartisan approach to taxes and royalties. It’s called “greed” and “get as much as you can and hang the consequences”. We might have to spend a little time courting the conservatives but I can assure you it’ll be business as usual.’

  A smattering of laughter went around the table and Sir Richard stood up. ‘Good, I’ll see you all at our next meeting.’

  Moira Raymond thought it was strange that Sir Richard had isolated the treatment of landowners and then wanted the discussion minuted. The devious means used to coerce landowners might not ever have been discussed at board meetings, but every board member knew about them. She suspected that Sir Richard was indulging himself in a little personal arse-covering and she wondered why?

  ‘Can I take the minutes of the last meeting as being read and confirmed?’ Llewellyn asked, returning to the formal agenda.

  Buffy Preston could not stop giggling as she smeared thick white paint onto her boss’s face before reaching for a tube of vivid red to apply to his lips.

  ‘I don’t know how I let you talk me into this crazy idea.’

  ‘Shoosh up, Steve, or you’ll end up with red paint on your nose; and don’t worry, you’re going to make a great clown. That costume and enormous yellow shoes you hired make you look like Ronald McDonald. The kids will love you.’

  ‘You mean, if I get to see them?’

  ‘Where do you keep your tissues?’ she asked, glancing around the kitchen of his apartment. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll get you in.’

  ‘You’re not coming.’

  ‘Of course I am. You won’t be able to drive once you put those shoes on and I’m not waiting in the hospital car park while you’re having all the fun.’

  ‘Some fun.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, that was thoughtless,’ she said, applying black paint around his eyes before affixing a bright green bubble nose. ‘You’re all done and I can’t wait to see you once you’ve put the costume and wig on.’

  It was just after 5pm when Steve stumbled out of his bedroom, wearing a red-and-white-striped top and blue overalls embossed with multi-coloured patches, but it was the bright orange curly hair that brought everything together.

  ‘Fantastic.’ Buffy laughed. ‘I’ve got the colouring books and toys. Let’s go.’

  Steve struggled to walk in his huge shoes and, when they arrived at Paisley Memorial, Buffy dropped him off at the entrance while she parked the car. They had timed their visit close to dinnertime in the hope that there would be no visitors in the children’s ward. As doctors and nurses walked in and out of the foyer, they were all smiles at the sight of the clown and this eased his apprehension about being refused entry.

  When Buffy had found out about Kristy Conrad, she had phoned the hospital and got the girl’s ward number: west 6c. She marched up to the reception and asked for directions; when the receptionists looked at Steve there were more smiles. He pondered the absurdity of a clown costume creating instant trust. For all they knew, he could be an axe murderer. A few minutes later, they entered a small ward in which there were two small children in beds and another five clustered around an Xbox, playing games.

  ‘Hi kids,’ Buffy said. ‘Bozo the clown’s here to visit you.’

  Steve flicked his recorder on, as little faces lit up and a chorus of ‘Hello Bozo’ echoed around the ward.

  ‘Hey Bozo,’ one of the little boys shouted. ‘You’ve got a really big mouth.’

  ‘All the better to eat you with,’ Steve said, and there was a burst of laughter.

  ‘And a really big nose,’ a little girl said.

  ‘All the better to smell you with.’

  ‘Oh, that’s off Bozo,’ Buffy joined in. ‘Isn’t that off kids?’

  ‘You’re off Bozo,’ the kids chorused.

  ‘Are your feet really that big?’ a little girl whispered, touching them. Steve saw the welts on her arms and legs. She was timid and looked to be sicker than the others.

  ‘Yes, and they stop me falling over,’ he said, purposefully stumbling and nearly falling, to the sounds of raucous laughter. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Kristy.’

  ‘Kristy Conrad?’

  ‘Yes, how did you know?’

  ‘Bozo’s a very clever clown,’ Steve said.

  The boys booed, and shouted, ‘No you’re not, you’re dumb.’

  ‘That’s right kids,’ Buffy said. ‘Bozo’s a Bozo.’

  A little boy pulled at Bozo’s overalls and, when Steve looked down at him, he saw that his face was covered with a nasty rash and he was bleeding from his tiny nose. ‘I want to be a clown when I grow up, Bozo,’ he said, brushing the blood away with the back of his hand.

  Buffy bent down and wiped his nose with a tissue, her eyes welling up with tears. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘William … William Aston.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mummy and Daddy told me the hospital would make me better. Do you know I have my own horse at home?’

  Buffy didn’t need a clown suit to attract the kids, as she had that one thing that all kids loved: she was as silly as they were and could communicate at their level. She was soon surrounded.

  Steve looked up and saw a pale little girl sitting up in bed, but still under the covers, looking at him. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I like you Bozo, you’re funny.’ She smiled wanly.

  ‘And I like you too, Jessie,’ he said, reading her name off the bed chart. ‘Would you like to do some colouring with me?’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, taking her hands from under the covers and showing him her palms. The skin had peeled away and her hands and arms were covered in light gauze, all the way up to her elbows. Steve looked at her cute little face and felt his stomach knotting.

  ‘I’ll leave a book for you t
o colour when you’re better.’

  Two nurses wheeling a trolley entered the ward and caught sight of Buffy. ‘I’m sorry, it’s dinnertime, but you can come back at seven o’clock for an hour if you like,’ one said, and then, seeing Steve, ‘Oh, how lucky are you kids to have a clown visit you?’

  ‘That’s Bozo,’ the kids screamed.

  ‘Well, thank Bozo for coming,’ the second nurse said, picking William up, which caused his pyjama top to rise and reveal red welts on his back.

  ‘Thank you Bozo,’ they chorused, and then roared with laughter as, even with Buffy’s assistance, he nearly tripped over his feet on the way to the door.

  As they walked down the corridor, Steve said, ‘Did you see that little boy’s back?’

  ‘It was horrible. I saw you reading the medical charts on the ends of the little tykes’ beds. Did you find anything?’

  ‘Nothing of relevance,’ he responded, but he was coming around to the view that big gas was responsible for the ailments that beset the young children of the valley. The man the press labelled the gas-man had blamed CEGL’s spraying of wastewater on tracks and roads for his and his kids’ symptoms, but that spraying was supposedly isolated and had stopped. Maybe, as Steve’s father claimed, every gas well released toxins into the water and air.

  ‘Well at least we know their names and where they live. Don’t you think it’s strange that they all live on rural properties? None of them live in the towns. I’m guessing we’ll find gas wells on their properties or nearby.’

  ‘Yeah, you might be right,’ Steve frowned. ‘I’ll tell you what I find even stranger is the lack of outrage. Why aren’t the parents screaming? Why hasn’t this strange outbreak of skin diseases received more publicity?’

  ‘You’re the boss of the valley’s main newspaper. Have you published anything?’

  ‘I’ve just found out about it and I still don’t know the cause.’ Steve glared.

  ‘Maybe there haven’t been enough cases or perhaps the community’s doctors have been unable to establish a link between the rashes and the gas wells, or perhaps that’s your answer,’ she said, stopping in the foyer and pointing at a polished timber board that listed the names of the hospital’s large donors. CEGL appeared at the top and the gold paint seemed fresher than that used on the names below. ‘Looks like a recent and very large donation to me.’

  ‘God, Buffy, they’re the biggest company in the valley and they’ve made a lot of donations to community projects. It’s part of appearing to be a good corporate citizen and all large companies do it. You don’t really believe that they made a donation to the hospital to buy the doctors off, do you? They’re not the evil empire, you know.’

  ‘Appearing to be a good corporate citizen? Says it all doesn’t it and I wouldn’t be so sure that they’re not the evil empire.’

  ‘I’d like to go to Colorado and find out what’s really happening, but the only contact I have loves the coal seam gas companies, so he’s hardly likely to be helpful. Besides, I can’t afford it and I don’t have the time.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to Queensland? There are 4000 gas wells on the Spurling Downs and plans for another 40,000. You won’t have any trouble getting help up there and I’m sure that guy from Barricade the Gate, Dennis Fulton, will be happy to show you around. I’m betting you’ll find kids up there with the same symptoms as those poor little mites we’ve just seen.’

  ‘Great idea, Buffy. I’ll phone Fulton. Remind me when I get back to give you a bonus from the money I save.’

  Chapter 17

  The National Advocate had reported the events that took place on the night the gas-man became a folk hero, without detailing the content of the speeches. After the heat had died down, they printed Harbrow’s short speech verbatim, in which he guaranteed the community’s safety, under the insipid headline A Solid Assurance.

  The sting was in the article immediately below, which carried the far larger headline A Disgrace and a large photo of a village in which houses were enveloped by a sea of mud to roof level and which revisited a 2006 Indonesian disaster in which the large Australian oil and gas producer, Santos Limited, was involved.

  Four years after the drilling for gas in Sidoarjo, East Java, by a consortium in which Santos Limited had an eighteen percent interest, went badly wrong, mud is still spewing at the rate of fifty Olympic-size swimming pools per day. Scientists say that it may not abate for thirty years and in a worst case scenario might be in existence for thousands of years, even if its flow rate subsides. The cause is thought to be a blowout of the gas well.

  An Australian team was unable to plug the spill and massive ponds built to contain it were breached, causing mud to flow over the roads and inundate villages.

  The mud volcano has killed thirteen people, buried twelve villages, destroyed 13,000 homes, displaced more than 42,000 residents and wiped out two thousand acres of densely populated farming and industrial land. The whole region around the vent hole is sinking by two to five centimetres each day due to the rising mud level, causing more damage to villages and triggering frequent bursts of flammable gas around homes. Damage caused by the mud, which has been devouring land and homes in Sidoarjo district since May, 2006, is estimated at about five billion dollars.

  Santos exited the project in December, 2008 and a spokesman said it had paid an Indonesian firm twenty-two million US dollars to support long-term mud management efforts at the site.

  Most readers who read the second article thought that Harbrow’s assurance amounted to little more than hot air.

  Chapter 18

  Dean Prezky was able to get a part-time job in the pub only because the gas companies employed most of the valley’s competent workforce on exorbitant wages. Proprietors of small businesses were left to fend for themselves, and in many cases had to employ the unemployable. Shop assistants in Tura were rude and lazy but the only way small business owners could get a break from working hundred-plus-hour weeks was to hire these ungrateful incompetents. Motel owners, building contractors, hardware suppliers and employees of the gas companies were on the gravy train, but not everyone was so fortunate. CEGL’s employees had covered up the logos on their shirts after a young female employee at a fast food shop had been caught spitting in their hamburgers.

  It was 11pm when Dean finished balancing the till, mopping the floors and locking up. He’d received three text messages from activist groups, informing him that Filliburton trucks carrying fracking chemicals had been rumbling through the town in convoys and, as he stood on the pub’s verandah, three more roared past him. Movement by night was standard practice for the gas companies, as they tried to hide drilling locations, and they were even more careful when about to frack, fearing community disruption and backlash. The drivers of the trucks were told to drive away from the well-sites if they were being followed. Another convoy sped past and Dean made up his mind. He quickly went back into the hotel, took three large bottles of water from the fridge and left ten dollars next to the till. He ran to his old four-wheel-drive and turned the engine on, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the large bag and back-pack that he had packed the night before were still there. Then he sent a short text to Vicki to let her know that he might be gone for a couple of nights.

  It was only a few minutes before the next convoy appeared and Dean gunned the Toyota and took off. He dared not turn the headlights on. A few minutes later, they left the bitumen and accelerated onto an unmade dirt road. The Toyota struggled to keep up and the only vision he had was the tail-lights of the third semitrailer.

  His windscreen was being peppered by stones and covered in red dust; he rolled down the window and stuck his head out, only to have his face blanketed. He turned on the windscreen-wipers, hoping that he had filled the wiper water container; a few seconds later there was a small, clear patch at the bottom of the windscreen. The whole time he squinted to the left and right looking for kangaroos and emus, knowing, that if he hit a big one, it would probably bounce
up on the bonnet and crash through the windscreen, and he would be a dead duck. Still the trucks sped on and he yearned to flick the lights on to see how long he’d been driving and how far he had travelled. He was soaked in perspiration, as he sat on the bumper of the third semitrailer, fearing that it might suddenly brake.

  The dirt track had become rougher and Dean’s head bounced against the roof as he hit numerous pot holes; a few minutes later he thought the Toyota would shake itself to pieces as it rattled over a long, corrugated section. The trucks hardly slowed and Dean imagined the terror the driver of a small car coming in the opposite direction would feel on seeing these monsters. Visibility was almost zero and he turned the wipers back on, but the red dust and water had formed into a solid mass across the windscreen and they did nothing to remove it. He rolled the window down and with his fingers tried to clear a patch to see through, just as the third truck braked to take a sharp turn. Dean jammed his foot on the brake and felt the Toyota tip and start to spin. He fought furiously to regain control, finally straightening it. The trucks had disappeared.

  Sweat was pouring from him as he pulled off the track, and checked the odometer - he was one hundred and sixty kilometres from town. He grabbed a torch from the glove box; got out and tried to clean the windscreen. At first he had panicked when he lost the trucks but, after he’d calmed down, he realised there would be more convoys coming along the track. He hoped that the drivers he had been following had not seen his brake lights and got on their two-way radios.

  A few minutes later, the high beam lights of the truck leading the next convoy lit up the bush and Dean waited, his foot poised above the accelerator, hoping he would be able to catch the last trailer before its tail-lights disappeared. As the third truck flew past, he slammed his foot down and the Toyota jolted into action. Even though the convoy was drawing away, he kept the last semitrailer in sight, building up momentum and closing the gap.