by Peter Ralph
As he drew closer to Marra, the roads continued to deteriorate, suggesting there were little or no funds available for infrastructure, so there were plenty of reasons for the government bending over backwards to accommodate big gas and its royalty dollars. By the time he reached the large town of Hallby, the GPS still wasn’t working, so he stopped at the Information Centre to ask for directions. When the little, middle-aged lady behind the counter asked him why he was going to Marra, he replied that he was a Sydney reporter doing a story on the gas wells and was meeting someone there.
‘You’re fifty kilometres from Marra,’ she said, pulling out a map and marking it with red crosses. ‘The gas companies have made such a difference. They’ve provided jobs for the young and brought wealth and growth back to the town. It was dying until they discovered those coal seams.’
‘Oh, I didn’t think they were very popular,’ Steve said. ‘I heard something about them pumping toxic chemicals into aquifers.’
‘Hmmph. If that was right, everyone in town would be sick or dead, wouldn’t they?’
‘So, no-one has come down with skin or respiratory problems?’
Her face clouded over and she squinted and wiggled her nose as if in deep thought, before responding. ‘Mister, I’ve been in this town for twenty years and there have always been those with skin problems and asthma but there aren’t any more now than there was when I first came here.’
‘So there were kids with red welts all over the body and nose bleeds then?’
‘We don’t need greenie Sydney trouble-makers up here,’ she replied, as a young couple came into the centre. ‘I have other people to look after.’
As he climbed back into the SUV, he thought that her remarks typified what was happening in the Fisher Valley, with those in the towns supporting the gas companies and those on the land hating them.
Marra was a tiny town with a few houses, a hotel and a freight depot. Dennis Fulton had his office in the back of the faded, weatherboard post office. In the adjacent room there was a mattress on the floor and a mosquito net. Dennis greeted Steve warmly, asking him to take a seat on a plastic kitchen chair, while he continued to pound the keyboard of his old computer. Clearly Barricade the Gate was not rolling in cash and Dennis obviously had to be a frugal dissident.
‘Have a look at this,’ he said, pointing to the screen.
Steve walked behind the desk and saw an overhead shot of the Colorado River and thousands of gas wells surrounding it, all joined by gravel tracks. It was like looking at a massive peg board with all the pegs joined by pieces of string.
‘I’ve seen it before.’
‘I thought you might’ve, but I wanted to refresh your memory. I’ve gotta farmer mate who has a light plane and he’s taking us up this afternoon. You’re going to see a near-identical grid on the Spurling Downs. Hard to believe, isn’t it? There are 4000 wells already and the fools are looking to drill another 40,000 on what is some of the best agricultural land in Australia.’
Steve took what he’d just heard with a grain of salt, knowing that zealots supporting a cause, no matter how good-hearted, were always prone to exaggerate.
‘I was on Source Energy’s website last night and they’ve got testimonials from landowners who’ve entered into access agreements with them. They all seem happy. How’s that work?’
‘Ignorant fools! They’re all graziers, you know, and I bet you didn’t see any testimonials from crop growers. When their livestock starts dying and the calves they breed are deformed, they’ll wake up, but by then it’ll be too late.’
Steve wasn’t happy with that answer; it smacked of Dennis saying he knew more than the graziers who had signed up with Source Energy.
‘You said on the phone that there are many families suffering from skin and respiratory problems.’
‘Sadly, yes there are.’
‘The lady at the Information Centre in Hallby told me that the gas companies had been good for the town and that there’s been no increase in skin and respiratory ailments in the twenty years she’s lived there.’
‘God, ignorance is the biggest problem we have. I’m going to introduce you to a family that had never experienced a day of sickness until gas wells were drilled on the property across the road from them, and I’ll show you a few other things that you won’t believe. We’ve got a ninety-minute drive to the airstrip, so we’d better get a move on.’
Chapter 19
Jack Thomas had no time for the state environment authorities, whom he saw as mere sycophants to their political masters. However, there were times, like now, when he had irrefutable evidence of a serious environmental crime, that he relished the thought of bringing them to account. He asked the receptionist to put him through to a senior environment officer with whom he’d had many run-ins. Angry at having been kept waiting for nearly five minutes, he blurted out his accusation. The officer condescendingly responded that they already knew about the spillage, that the company had reported it, that it was accidental, that damage was minimal and that Filliburton was making its best efforts to minimise the impact of the spill. Thomas silently cursed; someone must have seen Dean spying, as the gas companies never fessed up to anything unless they knew they had already been sprung. He put the phone down, his earlier ebullient mood replaced with dejection.
The crushing sorrow weighing on Charles Paxton had threatened to derail him, and it was only the warm feeling he got from thinking about taking the law into his own hands that kept him from completely losing his mind. He mused about blowing Spencer Harbrow’s head off with his double-barrel shot gun, smashing his pick-up truck into Moira Raymond’s car and pummelling Frank Beck to death with his bare fists, but his upbringing and character would never let him act these thoughts out. Every day he woke up grieving for Charlie, his marriage was on the rocks, the farm and winery were neglected and his only companion was Cosmos, who never left his side. He had taken the autopsy to his local and federal members of parliament, the EPA, lawyers and cancer specialists, all to no avail. Just like Dr George, they told him that the level of toxins found in Charlie’s liver and kidneys were within normal parameters. In his mind there was no such thing as a normal level of poison in the body of a six-year-old and he knew, without the slightest smidgeon of doubt, that CEGL had killed his son.
He was glad that he had taken it upon himself to organise Lock ’em Out and it was only when he was recruiting, circulating phone numbers and planning tactics, that the ever-present misery eased. One of the men who had signed on without any prompting was Mick Petheridge, an estatee, who headed up the Tura Defence Association, and who turned out to be a very clever tactician with an amazing knowledge of what the gas companies were doing. They had hit it off immediately and barely a day went by without them meeting or talking on the phone.
Paxton accepted Billy McGregor and his larrikin mob only after they swore they would not beat up the gas companies’ employees, but deep down he didn’t really care. Tom Morgan was another who had signed on without needing to be asked and soon there was a small army of 250 ready to move at short notice.
Morgan’s phone call, when it came, was brief. Gentle Lady’s water had broken and she was about to foal. Besides providing him with the thrill of winning big races, she was, like her name, quiet and gentle, and he could still see Charlie riding her around the paddocks. He loved her. He jumped into the car with Cosmos next to him and headed to Morgan’s stud. He knew from an early ultrasound that she was about to give birth to a colt, that would, no doubt, grow to be a magnificent, good-natured racehorse.
A large brass plaque worded Portman Stud was affixed to one of the two enormous rendered pillars that formed an imposing entrance to one of the finest properties in the valley. Paxton drove past the black, wrought-iron gates underneath the elms that were showing the first signs of spring and up to Morgan’s countrified mansion. The garden beds that housed the rose bushes were weedless and the lawns were manicured. Morgan’s glistening red-and-white Sikorsky sat on
a helipad adjacent to the gardens. The stables were at the rear of the mansion; a little further on was the training track, which was the equivalent of any city racecourse. It was surrounded by lush paddocks where Morgan’s horses could enjoy their freedom. The opulent twenty-stall breeding facility was a hive of activity when Paxton entered; Gentle Lady was lying on a bed of straw and Morgan, two vets and three stable hands were around her.
‘You’re just in time,’ Morgan said. ‘She’s straining but the vets say that she’s doing fine.’
Strangely, Cosmos started to whimper and Paxton put his hand on his head and told him to shut up. ‘Sorry, Tom, he’s never carried on like this before and if he keeps it up I’ll put him outside.’
Gentle Lady was groaning and letting out the occasional whinny but this wasn’t unusual, given that she was pushing a thirty-five kilogram foal through her birth canal. What was unusual was that Cosmos kept on whimpering. Paxton led him to the door and pushed him out.
‘There’s one of the front hooves,’ shouted a stable hand. It was distinctly visible through the white transparent sac and was soon joined by the other.
‘Good girl, good girl,’ Morgan encouraged, but his sharp horseman’s eye detected what looked like a deformity in the foal’s knees and he prayed he was wrong. A few seconds later the head and nose appeared. He was a chestnut with a white diamond forehead. Gentle Lady let out a huge sigh and stopped pushing. Ten minutes went by before she started straining again and the shoulders appeared.
‘Wha … what’s than on his neck?’ Paxton said. ‘Bloody hell, what is it?’
They had all seen the ugly, protruding lump but no-one wanted to answer. Only the rear legs were left in the birth canal and Gentle Lady and the newborn foal paused for a rest, while the grim-faced men looked on, unable to take their eyes off the deformities in the front knees and neck.
‘What’s wrong?’ Morgan asked, directing his question to the two vets.
One shrugged his shoulders and the other said, ‘I’ve seen half-a-dozen deformed calves in the past year, but I’ve never seen an ulcer like that on a newborn foal before.’
As they were talking, the mare struggled to her feet and broke the umbilical cord. The foal tried to stand but kept falling over. ‘He’s no good and he’ll never be any good,’ Morgan said, a tear running down his cheek. ‘The kindest thing we can do is put him out of his misery.’
‘No, I owe Gentle Lady for all the pleasure she’s given me and Charlie,’ Paxton said. ‘She’s a part of him and so is her foal.’
The foal was still on the ground when the vet gave him a pain-killing injection, before lancing the growth on his neck. Grey, murky fluid, tinged with blood, poured from the small incision.
‘Make sure you get a sample of that muck,’ Paxton said. ‘I want it analysed.’
‘I was going to.’ The vet ran his hands behind the foal’s front legs. ‘It’s not his knees, they’re okay. It’s his tendons. Just like the calves, they’re short and he may never walk.’
‘Are you sure you want to keep him, Charles?’
‘I’m positive, Tom.’
Paxton turned to the vets. ‘I want you to treat them with tenderness and care. Think about what can be done for the foal’s legs. I know he’ll never race, but I want you to do everything you can to ease his discomfort. Money is no object.’
Cosmos was still whimpering at the door and Paxton ruffled his big head. ‘I don’t know how, but you knew, didn’t you boy?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like that before, Charles. We’ve had fifteen foals this season, every one of them perfect.’
‘Nor me and, if I’d hadn’t heard about those deformed calves, I would’ve put it down to a freak of nature. I feel so sorry for the poor little bugger. No animal deserves to come into the world like that. Let’s hope the analysis of that muck proves what we already know and that we never see anything like it again.’
A healthy colt out of Gentle Lady by Achilles would have been worth in excess of $800,000 but neither man mentioned the money. Their burning passion had been to breed a champion that they could cheer for in big races.
There were a few small planes on the grass tarmac when Steve drove through the rusted gates of the tiny airport and along a gravel track to where an old, reddish-brown, four-wheel-drive was parked. The man standing next to it ambled over, hand extended, the bow in his legs suggesting that he spent a lot of time riding horses. ‘Lang McRae’, he said. ‘So you’re Steve Forrest. I heard you wanted to see some gas wells. Well you’re gonna see plenty. G’day Dennis. The weather looks like it’s coming in, so we better not loiter.’
The plane was an old four-seater, single engine Cessna Skyhawk with patches on the fuselage and on one wing, and Steve, who was no fan of light planes, started to have second thoughts. However, the interior was spotless and looked like it had had a complete makeover; its four black leather seats still smelt new.
‘Lang’s got an eight-thousand-acre cattle property,’ Dennis volunteered, as they taxied along the runway. ‘He’s worried that the gas companies are working their way towards him and he wants to stop ’em where they are. He’s one of the founding members of Barricade the Gate and every time we’ve blocked the bastards he’s been there.’
‘If we don’t stop ’em, they’ll ruin the country. They’re stealing and destroying the land and when they’re not poisoning the water they’re depleting it, and our bloody useless politicians are helping them,’ Lang said, as the little plane hit turbulence. Steve gripped the armrests tightly, glad that he was sitting in the back where the other two men couldn’t see him.
‘God help us all if they pollute the Great Artesian Basin,’ Dennis said. ‘Look out your window, Steve. Can you see them?’
Steve strained his eyes, but all he could see was green; it was hard to distinguish the grass from the trees, let alone see a gas well. ‘Sorry, I can’t.’
‘I’m at eight thousand feet. I’ll take it down lower when we get near the Owens’ place. They’ve got ninety wells on their property and there are plans to double that.’
‘Did they sign an access agreement?’ Steve asked.
‘Nah. Up here the land access consultants know more about the law than the lawyers, but the landowners are only allowed legal representation when negotiating an agreement and then only if the gas companies consent. Have you ever heard anything so bloody one-sided and stupid? Anyhow, the Owens told them to get lost and Source Energy applied to the Land Court to have an agreement determined. Now listen to this. Once the application was filed, Source had the right to give the Owens notice, telling them that they intended to enter the property within ten business days, which they did. The mining and gas companies have the right to enter landowners’ properties before the Land Court has even made a determination on their applications. It’s ludicrous legislation enacted to favour the gas companies and screw the farmers.’
‘Why didn’t you block them?’
‘We hadn’t formed Barricade the Gate back then, but we’ve stopped them in their tracks many times since, haven’t we Dennis? We’ve cost the bastards plenty and they haven’t liked it, so they whinged and whined to their buddies in the Government, who rushed through draconian legislation in an attempt to stop us. Any person blocking a gas company from entering a property is now liable to a fine of $50,000.’
Dennis laughed. ‘And if you’re someone who can’t or won’t pay, like me, they’ll jail you for two years. We’ve got nearly 500 members and I can’t wait for them to try us on. Can you imagine the media’s reaction when they try to put us all behind bars?’
‘We’ll be over the Owens’ place in a minute, so I’m gonna take it down.’
It was obvious to Steve that governments were desperate for cash and he wasn’t surprised that they were selling out their primary producers for royalties and taxes. What did surprise him were the risks they were prepared to take with the Great Artesian Basin, the aquifers and the health of their constituents. As the p
lane completed its abrupt descent and levelled out, he could see the tracks between scores of gas wells.
‘There’s the Owens’ place,’ Dennis shouted. ‘God, look at the bloody wells. They’re on every property in the area.’
Steve thought that it was like looking down on the land adjacent to the Colorado River, except the grid was more widely spaced.
As if reading his mind, Dennis said, ‘And the mongrels are hell-bent on increasing the concentration. Look at the size of that wastewater pit half full with God knows what.’
It was so large that Steve had thought that it was a dam - hundreds of acres of enclosed land, containing a grey, grimy solution.
‘It’s on a flood pain,’ Dennis continued. ‘If it ever floods up here, the land will take years to recover. That’s if it ever recovers. And to think they want to sink gas wells all over the Downs. Bloody fools!’
There was a flash of lightning on the horizon and Lang yelled, ‘It’s time to head back.’ The little plane started to climb, labouring through the rain and the wind. Steve gripped the armrests even tighter as hailstones battered the fuselage and wings, and he resolved that this would be the last time he’d get into anything smaller than a 737. Forty minutes later the storm was over and Lang made a perfect landing in bright sunshine. ‘Are you coming back home for dinner?’
‘Sorry, Lang, Steve has to get back to Hallby. I’m taking him out to the Lairds’ place in the morning.’
‘Poor buggers,’ Lang muttered, shaking Steve’s hand. ‘I read your article in the Advocate young fella and it was very good. You need to follow it up with something about the damage to the environment and to people’s lives that the bloody gas companies cause once they force their way onto our land.’
Steve thanked him but didn’t respond. Sure, he’d seen a lot of gas wells, heard some terrible stories and thought it inequitable when landowners had their properties stolen from under them, but they did provide cheap gas for the masses here and overseas, there were economic benefits and they created employment. He also knew that, if he was going to be true to himself and his craft, he needed to remain open-minded.