Dirty Fracking Business

by Peter Ralph

  ‘All your problems are with one company, though. Surely they’re not all like Nordic?’

  ‘They’re all the same. I could take you to properties all over the Downs where the owners have suffered dreadfully, like we have.’ Pete paused and spat on the ground. ‘Well, maybe not as bad as us, but CEGL, Source, Javelin and a heap of the smaller gas companies have made life miserable for farmers. They’re not regulated in any way and, after they’ve lodged their environmental applications, they just do what they want. Then, to rub salt into the wounds, we get to watch some dopey government minister on the six o’clock news telling us that they’re subject to the harshest regulations ever enacted and have to comply with 1500 conditions. Christ, I’m getting depressed. Let’s go and have that drink.’

  They were barely back on the track, before they saw a cloud of red dust coming towards them, as it drew closer they saw that it was a blue and white Nordic truck with a dozen or so workers on board. The driver waved but was ignored and Annie muttered, ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘Look at the gum trees coming up on the left. You can see the top of a drill rig. I’m guessing they’ll frack it in the next few days.’

  ‘We’ve got Nordic employees all over our property every day of the week, exploring, drilling, fracking, laying pipes and gravel and disturbing the cattle, but they do nothing, not a damn thing, to maintain their existing wells,’ Annie said.

  Steve had planned to be on a flight out of Brisbane that night, but the tour had taken longer than anticipated; as they pulled up to the house, the sun was dipping behind the horizon.

  Dennis had hardly spoken, but now he smiled at Steve. ‘Are you a convert?’

  ‘You knew I would be.’

  ‘Yeah, anyone who can’t see that Annie and Pete have been dealt the rawest of raw deals wouldn’t have a smidgeon of compassion in their body, but remember, when you write your article, that they’re just a microcosm of what’s happening to families all over the Downs.’

  Annie smiled. ‘Welcome to the clan, Steve. Are you going to join us for tea?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ he said, as Pete dropped a fat, two-ring binder in front of him, saying,’ Have a flick through that.’

  There were medical bills from GPs, dermatologists and pathology laboratories for blood tests, that ran into the thousands of dollars, along with photos of them and their two boys. There were pictures of their younger son, Tony, with red welts all over his body and blood oozing from his ears and others of Roger, their older boy, lying in bed with blood pouring from his nose.

  ‘That happened before we found out about the THPS in the water,’ Annie said, ‘but we couldn’t prove it caused the boys’ ailments or get Nordic to admit they were responsible. When we accused them, we got letters from their highfalutin’ lawyers, not only denying liability but threatening legal action, in the event that we made any defamatory remarks about their client.’

  ‘That’s the standard procedure they adopt against anyone who challenges them,’ Pete added. ‘They intimidate and coerce knowing that most farmers don’t have the time or money to brief a big firm of lawyers to fight ’em.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What could we do? We’re struggling to make ends meet, we haven’t seen a newborn calf for over a year and our once-fertile land is being destroyed in front of our eyes,’ Annie sniffled, her face contorted in anger. ‘It’s so unfair.’

  ‘We sent the boys to boarding school in Southport so they could get away from this environment, something we really couldn’t afford to do, but we didn’t have a choice.’ Pete said. ‘Ironic isn’t it? It used to be thought of as healthy to send your kids to work on a farm or station. Well, it sure ain’t now. In some ways we’re lucky, because we own this place unencumbered. Had we had a mortgage, we wouldn’t have been able to continue. We’ve got no intention of selling; besides, there wouldn’t be any buyers and the property’s lost half its value in the past five years.’

  ‘But how did you get sick? You said you never drank the bore water.’

  ‘No, but we used it to wash and shower. After we found out about the THPS and other chemicals, I connected all of the outlets in the house to the rainwater tanks and within six weeks the welts had gone, the bleeding had stopped and we were almost back to normal. It’s only a matter of time before the gas companies kill someone.’

  Steve didn’t respond, but his mind went back to Charlie Paxton and he thought, they probably already have.

  ‘I expect to see your article in the Advocate,’ Pete said.

  It was nearly nine o’clock when they said good-bye to the Lairds. After Dennis closed the last gate and climbed back into the SUV, he looked over at Steve. ‘I’m totally beat. I’m gonna have a sleep. Aim for Pinilla and you’ll see signs to Marra once you get there. Oh, and keep an eye out for kangaroos and emus.’

  Chapter 21

  Dean Prezky had just got home from a long day’s work when Jack Thomas phoned, telling him that Filliburton had already fessed up to the environment authorities and that someone must have seen him spying. Dean said it wasn’t possible, before slamming the phone down and again musing whether the risks he had taken had been worth it.

  He recalled the two-and-half days; he’d been well hidden, and was certain that he had not been detected. Then he thought back to the morning when he drove past the well-pad. Someone must have seen his old Toyota and put two and two together. If only he had got away in the dark as he had planned and then it dawned on him - he had evidence on film to prove that the disposal of wastewater had been anything but accidental. Bugger what Thomas had said about stealing, he had proof of a crime and surely the authorities would not be so stupid as to charge him with some misdemeanour that he may have inadvertently committed.

  If necessity is the mother of invention then for Dean injustice was the mother of enlightenment. He wasn’t computer literate but he persisted and eventually fathomed out how to download the camcorder’s hard drive to his laptop and edit the footage. By midnight he had condensed nearly twelve hours of film to eight minutes.

  Spencer Harbrow lobbied CEGL’s major institutional shareholders in London, seeking their support to remove the three non-executive directors who had dared vote against him. The shareholders empathised with him but would not back his planned coup and this irritated him but he was careful not to vent his feelings, knowing he could not afford to upset them. The National Advocate had eased up on its vendetta after CEGL dropped its legal action and reinstated the advertising contracts. They had even published an article about Hercules Gas and its unsafe processes and finished, surprisingly, by saying that its takeover by the much larger CEGL was something that the community should welcome.

  Harbrow was fed up with the delays in the Fisher Valley and being held up by a no-account group called the estatees and he was determined to crush them. In a detailed memo to Moira Raymond he set her the near-impossible task of having at least four wells drilled on the estates within ninety days. He knew that she would almost certainly fail, after which he would terminate her services. She would rue the day she had voted against him. He would then employ Frank Beck to break the estatees’ resistance by any means necessary. When the share price resumed its upward climb, as it surely would with Beck’s clandestine help, he would also rid himself of the others who were no longer team players.

  Steve Forrest’s flight touched down at Newtower Airport and thirty minutes later he was crawling through heavy early-morning traffic, listening to talkback radio. When he reached the outskirts of the city, he accelerated and two hours later he was pleased to see the Welcome to the Fisher Valley sign. He was soon flying past the massive open-cut and underground coal mines and watching clouds of steam pouring from the coal-fired power stations.

  The news came on and he turned up the volume. The Ministry for Primary Industries yesterday dissolved the Tura Community Coal Seam Gas Consultative Committee, without any explanation or community consultati
on. Residents are outraged that this Committee, seen as essential by the former minister to ensure proper communication between residents and the gas companies, could be abolished in such a cavalier manner. The Chief Executive of the Fisher Valley Protective Alliance, Mr Jack Thomas, said it was a black day for democracy and that it was more than just a coincidence that the gas giant, CEGL, held licences over seventy-five percent of the land in Tura. “The executives of CEGL have never been totally open with the community but with the stroke of a pen the Minister has licenced them to operate in secrecy without public scrutiny or accountability.”

  There were five committees operating in the valley and Steve could not understand why only one, admittedly the most aggressive, had been shut down. The residents of Tura would be enraged and the decision might drive them to take matters into their own hands. Perhaps this was what the government and CEGL wanted, or maybe the premier was cosying up to his gas company buddies for a cushy consultancy after he lost the forthcoming election, which, in the absence of a miracle, he most certainly would.

  Steve had been so absorbed by the news that he had not noticed the police car behind him until he heard the siren and saw the flashing lights. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Josh Gibson walking towards him.

  ‘G’day Josh, how are you?’ He grinned.

  ‘We clocked you at one hundred and eleven. Why were you exceeding the speed limit?’

  He started to laugh, but then noticed Sandi standing behind Josh and knew that his friend wasn’t going to be able to turn a blind eye. ‘I wasn’t concentrating.’

  ‘Lack of concentration is one of the prime reasons that we have so many accidents,’ Josh said. ‘Do you have your licence?’

  Steve handed it over and Josh passed it to Sandi, saying, ‘Check this and the vehicle registration and then write him up.’

  As Sandi walked back to the police car, Josh said under his breath, ‘Sorry, mate, I can’t be seen to be doing favours in front of a junior officer.’

  ‘That’s okay, Josh, I understand,’ he said, still watching Sandi. He had paid her scant attention the night the gas well exploded, but now there was something about her that caught his eye. She looked up and caught him staring and smiled, before going back to writing the ticket.

  She returned and handed him the ticket. ‘There’s one demerit point with this and you don’t have all that many left, so you need to be careful.’ Her eyes were twinkling and she touched his fingers, holding the ticket for a split second longer than necessary.

  ‘That’s good advice,’ Josh added. ‘Make sure you stay within the speed limits from now on.’

  As Steve neared the outskirts of Paisley, his mobile began to ring. He pulled off the road to answer it.

  ‘My name’s Dean Prezky. You don’t know me but I need to see you.’

  ‘Everyone knows who you are, Dean. I’ve been meaning to ask you for an interview. What’s this about?’

  ‘You’ll see when we meet. When are you free?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.’

  ‘At your office?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Moira Raymond knew from the formal tone of her boss’s memo that there was more to it than met the eye. She picked it up, drew the drapes on her windows and poured herself a stiff scotch, before flopping into a recliner. As she read it again, its intent was obvious and clearly it had been drafted for the eyes of others, so that her boss, if pressed to justify his actions, could say, Look, these are the instructions I issued and she failed to deliver. He was smarmy but he was also clever and a master of subtleties, but to Moira there was nothing subtle about his memo. Others might not understand it, but Harbrow was blatantly telling her, You crossed me and now you’re for it. Well, she had no intention of failing and the law was on her side; if she had to crash through the estatees by force, she would. Not only would she deliver the four gas wells on the estates, but another eight on Scott-Tempy’s property and, in doing so, smash the resistance to big gas in the valley once and for all. She would need Frank Beck’s assistance, but that would not be a problem.

  She knew how big her boss’s ego was and it would never have entered his mind that the dissent at the last board meeting might ultimately cost him his job, but it had not escaped her. The door to the job that she coveted had been nudged open and she wasn’t about to waste the opportunity to ingratiate herself with those who counted.

  Clem Aspley and Phillip Bancroft had never been great supporters of hers and she had not phoned either of them at home before.

  Aspley answered the phone on the second ring and sounded far from happy at having had his evening disturbed.

  ‘Moira, whatever it is, I’m sure it could’ve waited until tomorrow.’

  She wondered if she was making him late for a hot date. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to thank you for your decisive comments at the board meeting. They saved us from an embarrassing defeat in the courts and, needless to say, some very bad publicity and a pummelling on the stockmarket.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Is that all?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Clem; you’re obviously busy so I’ll let you go. I really admire your courage though. Bye.’

  ‘Hold on. I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

  ‘You’re very modest. I’m sure you realise that opposing Spencer is not an everyday occurrence and I can’t ever remember him being on the wrong side of a resolution before. I bet he’s given you a real chewing out.’

  ‘Well, actually no, I haven’t heard from him.’

  ‘You haven’t heard from him?’ She paused.

  It had been a week since the board meeting and Aspley had given no thought to Harbrow not contacting him but, on reflection, it was unusual. Harbrow would phone at all times of the day or night to talk about cars, wines, women, and sometimes to organise a date or to invite him to come for what he described as a quick spin in my jet. ‘He’s probably just been busy.’ There was a tinge of doubt in his voice.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she said, intentionally replying too quickly.

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you? Has he spoken to you since the meeting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s probably sulking. I wouldn’t read too much into it if I were you,’ he said without conviction, resolving to phone Phillip Bancroft and Vic Bezzina to see if Harbrow had called them.

  Moira could sense the cogs spinning in Aspley’s head. CEGL had made him rich and he enjoyed the perks of office. ‘Oh, I wasn’t reading anything into it,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to thank you for promoting such a tough decision. I doubt anyone else on the board could’ve championed the resolution in the way you did.’

  Aspley had been so stressed about the pressure the Maddock Group had applied to him that he could not remember what he had said, but he didn’t like what he’d just heard. ‘I think you’re placing far too much weight on what I did.’

  ‘Have it your way, but I know that, thanks to you, and to a lesser extent Phil and Vic, we came to a decision that best served the interests of the company, and that’s something I’d like to think we could do again.’

  ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t.’

  She had not won him over, but, before, he would have sided with Harbrow without giving her any thought. Now he would think long and hard.

  ‘Have you spoken to any of the other directors about this?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but I do have to call Phil.’

  ‘Let’s keep what we discussed as our little secret.’

  ‘Sure. Good night, Clem.’

  ‘Good night, Moira.’ His tone displayed none of his earlier aggression.

  Fifteen minutes later, she took a long satisfying sip of whiskey, after having praised Phillip Bancroft for unflinchingly proposing and supporting the contentious resolution. When she put the phone down, she was well satisfied - she knew that Harold Llewellyn and Vic Bezzina would support her in any showdown and two more votes would see her boss shown the door.

  Billy McGreg
or’s gang were restless and had been at him night after night in the pub with their plan to hurl a Molotov cocktail through the window of the Paisley Real Estate Agency, which was full of advertisements for forthcoming mortgagee auctions of farms and vineyards. Billy was wild and loved a fight, but he wasn’t a fool or inherently bad. Knowing there’d be no community support for such a wanton act of destruction, he had baulked at burning down the agency and instead came up with the idea of graffitiing the windows and gluing the locks. As they played pool and waited for the clock to tick around to closing time, Frank Beck and three of his Filliburton mates sauntered in, ordered a jug of beer and sat themselves down at the bar.

  ‘How long are you kids gonna be on that table?’ Beck yelled.

  ‘It’s a challenge table, Mister,’ Kazza replied, blowing a large chewing gum bubble. ‘Ya gotta put your name on the board.’

  There were about a dozen names on the board, all members of Billy’s gang.

  ‘We don’t want to challenge, we want to play against each other.’

  Billy knew who Beck was and who he worked for. After CEGL, Filliburton was the most hated organisation in the valley. ‘Okay,’ he said, glancing at the board. ‘As soon as the challenges are over, it’s all yours.’

  ‘Kid, you don’t want me to come over there.’

  ‘If you come over here,’ Billy said, smacking the butt of the pool cue into his palm, ‘you’re going down.’ His gang jumped to their feet as if they were one.

  Beck turned purple and bounced off his stool, but his mates restrained him, knowing they were outnumbered five to one.

  ‘Bloody ape man,’ Billy said, smacking the cue a little harder.

  ‘Your mob’s not always gonna be around to protect you, you skinny little smart-arse.’

  Billy laughed and turned back to the pool table, subtly nodding to two of the gang, who disappeared through the back door. For the next two hours an uncomfortable tension hung over the bar, with Beck seething, while the unruly gang provoked him. Three minutes before closing time, Kazza looked over at Beck and said, ‘The table’s all yours,’ to raucous roars of laughter.