Dirty Fracking Business

by Peter Ralph

  ‘Of course I could and, if I ever ran short, I’d phone Mrs Elliot.’

  ‘So you want to run with it?’

  ‘I’d love to have my own column.’

  ‘Good. I’ve already drafted the first article, under your name of course.’

  ‘I knew there was a catch.’ Buffy groaned. ‘Who am I attacking on your behalf?’

  ‘Read it for yourself.’ Steve pushed a single A4 page towards her:

  Heard Around Town

  Heard around town that a Porsche-driving, Paisley-based executive is about to make a tilt at her company’s top job and might soon be leaving the Fisher Valley for the greener pastures of Sydney. Rumour has it the company’s board of directors are none too happy with the long-serving incumbent and a change at the top is imminent. I’d like to say that when she goes she’ll be sadly missed, but I was brought up not to tell lies, so I can’t. Good riddance and God speed.

  ‘I’m hoping it might create a bit of tension.’

  ‘I love it. But is it true?’

  ‘Yes, I heard it around town.’ Steve laughed, ducking a stapler that came whistling past his ear. ‘You’ll need to write two more articles to complete the column but, remember, they have to be filled with innuendos and you can’t specifically identify anyone.’

  ‘How many female executives in Paisley drive a Porsche?’

  ‘Good point, Buffy. Why don’t you change it to sports-car-driving female executive?’

  ‘Thanks boss. If you’ll excuse me, I have a column to write.’

  Chapter 27

  CEGL’s phones were jammed as punters from all over the state phoned in to cancel their energy accounts. The television, radio and print media had picked up the story of Artie Cleever and the ‘hard-hearted international corporation’ that was trying to rip him off. Harbrow paced around his office while Harold Llewellyn replayed the Aaron James indictment on his laptop. It had outraged Sydneysiders and sent CEGL’s share price tumbling again.

  Harbrow abruptly stopped pacing, ‘We never conned the silly old goat or forced him to sign an access agreement. Harold, I want to sue that big-mouthed prick this time.’

  The older man slowly shook his head. ‘We can’t win. If we sue, he’ll ridicule us every morning, he’ll make a mockery of the legal action and, in the end, we’ll withdraw and he’ll crow for weeks. He’s done it before to bigger companies than us.’

  ‘He called you a shyster. You can’t let him get away with that.’

  ‘We offered Cleever less than fifty percent of the value of his land before we started drilling. Do you want to listen to some of the calls that James took from his legion of listeners? “Shyster” is tame compared to some of the language they used.’

  ‘I’m not interested in listening to peons, Harold, but are you advising me not to take action against this loud-mouth?’

  ‘Yes, and not only that. We need to pay Cleever his half-a-million dollars and get out of the media spotlight as quickly as we can. Aaron James will move onto another campaign once we’ve settled. He’ll find another cause and forget about us but, if we don’t, he’ll be at us day after day.’

  ‘And then we’ll be a soft touch for every other sod farmer in the land. Maybe I need to take some legal advice from a more aggressive firm.’

  Llewellyn rarely lost his cool, but he had to restrain himself from saying, if you hadn’t taken the Maddock group on in the first place we wouldn’t be in this predicament. ‘You think you can beat Aaron James because you have a lot more money than he does. He doesn’t care about that. He controls the media and he’s like no other talkback presenter in the land. Don’t you understand? He doesn’t report the news, he makes the news. You can go to another legal firm if you like, but don’t come running back to me when your nose is bloodied and James has his foot on your windpipe, crushing the life out of you.’

  ‘Settle down, Harold.’ Harbrow placed his hand on his chairman’s forearm. ‘I was joking. Sure I’d like to take James on, but when have I ever not taken your wise counsel? If you say we should pay the silly old goat out, then pay him out we shall.’

  ‘On another matter,’ Llewellyn said, still miffed. ‘Did you see the latest polls? Nick Gould’s campaigning hard and he’s closed the gap to four points. I hope you didn’t cancel that donation to the Labor Party.’

  ‘I know what Nick can do on the election trail and I never considered cancelling,’ Harbrow lied. He had read the same polls and reinstated the cheque.

  Llewellyn got up to leave and the two men shook hands, each thinking the other had outlived his usefulness. The door had barely closed before Harbrow was again reading the small article in the Paisley Chronicle that had so peeved him. So, Moira was bragging that she was about to unseat him. Well, if his plans worked out, she’d soon be fighting to keep her own job, let alone be worrying about his.

  Moira also read the article and cursed, while wondering where that rude, overweight girl had got her information. Someone with loose lips had talked and she’d soon find out who it was. Fortunately, Spencer Harbrow was hardly likely to read the Paisley Chronicle, so she was unlikely to have lost the element of surprise.

  Andrew Brown, once the popular bank manager around town, was now reviled and life at home, other than for the children, was loveless. Sally had twice raised divorce in the past month. She wanted her friends and lifestyle back and was constantly at him to quit the bank, but knew that he couldn’t and the feeling of being trapped drove her to despair. Andrew was ill-tempered with his staff, made mistakes, and forgetfulness crept into his work. Each morning when he left home, he wondered whether he would return to an empty house. He dreaded Monday mornings, because there was always an email instructing him to implement a fresh batch of foreclosures.

  Andrew flicked through the nine files that had sat on his desk for the past two days, dreading the phone calls that he knew he would eventually have to make. For the folks of the Fisher Valley, receiving a phone call from Andrew Brown was thought to be only marginally better than receiving one from your Maker. Well, he’d put them off long enough. Once he had finished his appointment with Tom Morgan, he’d grit his teeth and get on with the dirty job the bank was paying him to do.

  As one of the clerks showed Morgan into his office, Andrew wondered what he wanted. He’d never banked with the FBA and was advised by some of Sydney’s finest merchant bankers. Not that he needed much advice, because he had always known how to make a dollar. He was dressed in a black jacket that he hung over the back of a chair, a red-and-blue flannel shirt, frayed jeans and black workboots. Andrew thought that he must be the most unlikely-looking billionaire in the world.

  ‘What can I do for you, Tom?’ he asked.

  ‘Andrew, I’m running very short of time,’ Morgan said, glancing at his watch. ‘And it’s not what you can do for me but what I can do for you. The stud is taking more time than ever; it’s losing its enjoyment, because I’m getting bogged down in paperwork and administration that any competent manager could handle far better than me. How would you like to come and work for me?’

  ‘I … I … I’m flattered,’ Andrew responded, seeing a glimmer of hope in his otherwise futile circumstances. ‘Bu … but there’s so much to discuss. What does the job entail and how much d …’

  ‘Sixty-five thousand dollars a year.’

  It was less than the bank was paying him but not by much. ‘What about a car?’

  ‘You won’t need a car. There’s utilities, four-wheel-drives and trucks on the property and if you need to use one you can take your pick.’

  The fully-maintained car from the bank was such a big deal. Andrew estimated that it saved him nearly $20,000 a year and Morgan’s offer had just lost any attraction. His disappointment must have shown, because Morgan said, ‘There’s a four-bedroom manager’s residence on the property. It needs some sprucing up and TLC but you could sell or rent your house in Paisley and use the money to buy a car. But, I’m telling you, you won’t need one.’
<
br />   ‘You expect me to live on the property?’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t think I’d need to spell that out. If I remember rightly, your wife’s a fine horsewoman and I might be able to offer her something around the stud, on a casual basis to start with, but who knows where it might lead. There’s a small primary school about two kilometres away.’ Morgan pushed an envelope across the desk. ‘I have to fly. It’s all in here. Read it carefully and if you’ve got any queries phone me, preferably at night. I’ve got a lot on right now.’

  ‘If I accept, when would you like me to start?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Morgan grinned. ‘Let me know as soon as you can.’

  ‘I will. Thanks, Tom.’ Andrew’s mind was already made up and he hoped Sally would share his enthusiasm. After Morgan left, he opened the deepest drawer of his desk and dropped the files into it. With luck and good timing he might never have to make those nine phone calls.

  The man sitting in Dr George Bingham’s surgery was about forty-five years old, wiry, with a burnt, wrinkled face, the legacy of working outdoors for years. He had complained about bringing blood up in his saliva. The doctor examined his mouth and throat and then placed his stethoscope on his chest and his back. ‘How long has this been occurring, Mr Martin?’

  ‘Call me Jake, Doc, and about six months.’

  ‘Why did it take you so long to come and see me?’

  ‘Didn’t think it was anything to be worried about, and then I began losing weight, so I thought I betta get checked out.’ The man grinned nervously.

  ‘When did you have your last full medical?’

  ‘No offence doc, but I don’t like doctors. I don’t reckon I’ve been inside a surgery for ten years and, if it wasn’t for my wife’s nagging, I wouldn’t be here today.’

  ‘How’s your appetite?’

  ‘I used to eat like a horse, but now I rarely feel like eating. I put it down to getting older.’

  ‘What about your bowel movements?’

  ‘Irregular and sometimes I don’t go for days, but I guess if ya don’t eat you don’t …’ He didn’t complete the sentence.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I work for Filliburton on the gas wells. I was up on the Spurling Downs before I came down here. Got a promotion to assistant supervisor, ya see, and had to come down here cos the money was too good to knock back.’

  ‘When a well’s fracked and the water gushes from the ground, have you ever got any on you?’ Doctor George asked, his face clouding over. He wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, but coughing up blood, losing weight and loss of appetite were symptomatic of cancer and he didn’t like what he’d heard.

  Jake laughed. ‘You’re joking aren’t ya? Anyone within twenty or thirty metres gets saturated. I can’t remember working on a rig where I haven’t been soaked and I reckon I’ve worked on hundreds.’

  ‘Do you wear safety gear?’

  ‘We can wear wet-weather slicks, but they don’t keep the water off your face and they’re so bloody hot that no-one ever bothers.’

  ‘So you’re not forced to wear safety gear?’

  ‘Doc, we’re usually drilling hundreds of kilometres from nowhere. Who’s gonna force us?’

  ‘Do you have a trade union?’

  ‘Sure, the Gas Workers Union, but we never see anyone. The company deducts our subs and we get a monthly newsletter and that’s about it.’

  ‘I’m booking you in for a full set of X-rays, scans and blood tests at Paisley Memorial at 8am tomorrow. They might take two to three days, but you’ll be able to go home at nights.’

  ‘Tomorrow? That soon?’

  ‘Try to get a good night’s sleep.’ Doctor George put his hand reassuringly on Jake’s shoulder.

  ‘Wha … what do ya think it might be Doc? Ya must have some idea.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t,’ he lied. ‘I’ll know more once the results of the tests are back.’ Five minutes after the man had left, the doctor was still at his desk, perusing Charlie Paxton’s file. He had been hoping that little Charlie was a ‘one off’, but the man’s symptoms were identical and he knew what the tests would reveal.

  Aaron James gloated after contracts were exchanged between CEGL and Artie Cleever for the purchase of his land. Old Artie phoned in and broke down in tears as he expressed his gratitude to Simon Breckenridge and to James. This resulted in James unleashing another tirade against CEGL and Braithwaite Ogilvie and Llewellyn but, just as Llewellyn had predicted, another crusade soon beckoned and two days later neither were mentioned. The public relations disaster was, in the short term, over.

  Norris Scott-Tempy stood at the front gates of the old Morrisey property like some feudal lord, waving in convoys of CEGL’s trucks carrying huts, generators, light poles and components of drilling rigs, to be erected on the well-pads that had been constructed the previous week. The activity on the pads was more than matched by gangs of labourers who had been promised huge bonuses to clear the trees at the rear of the property and extend the gravel tracks. There was an eight-well plan for the property on a very tight deadline and Moira Raymond had let her supervisors know that she would take no prisoners if they dared fail her.

  Some objectors had sought to block the gates, but they knew they had no rights and the police had moved them on with a minimum of fuss. Adjoining neighbours had agitated and one had even threatened Scott-Tempy with physical violence, but he wasn’t worried, the law was on his side. If he got the opportunity to buy these whingers’ properties at depressed prices, he most certainly would. He had gone from being disliked to being hated, but it was like water off a duck’s back. He was well-off, some might say rich, but he’d always dreamed of being mega-wealthy and, with the help of big gas, the realisation of his dream was in sight.

  Frank Beck spent three weeks in Noosa, where he hit the surf every morning at 6.30 for two hours before having breakfast. On most days he was on the golf course before midday and back in his luxurious beachside apartment early enough to take a quick swim before dinner. It didn’t take him long to strike up a relationship with a tawny, long-legged, forty-something divorcee trying to forget a bad marriage. The sex was torrid but she was insatiable; he’d soon had more than enough of her and was ready to get back to work. He kissed her goodbye at the airport, promising to stay in touch, knowing that he would never see her again.

  At Newtower Airport he picked up copies of the Chronicle and the National Advocate and skim-read them, looking for anything relating to the illegal discharge of wastewater by Filliburton. As his bosses had predicted, his misdemeanours appeared to be have been swept under the carpet. On the drive back to the valley, he received a phone call from a man whom he knew of but had never spoken to before, Spencer Harbrow.

  On Monday morning, he’d just finished telling the receptionist about the weather and surf in Noosa, when the phone rang. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Moira Raymond for you.’

  ‘Good morning, Moira.’

  ‘I need to see you. Twenty minutes. My office.’

  She was tense and wasted no time on pleasantries before directing him to take a chair. ‘Frank, we’ve wasted far too much time on the estates without getting anywhere. As you know, despite having exploration licences and arbitrated land access agreements, nearly every time we’ve tried to drill, those fools calling themselves Lock ’em out have barricaded the gates, blocked the roads and let down the tyres on our trucks. Well, enough’s enough. We need to make a decisive move to establish ourselves in the heart of the estates.’

  This was the type of challenge that Beck thrived on. ‘I agree. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘I’ve selected a property.’ She opened a map and pointed. ‘This one’s a little larger than the norm for the estatees. It’s seventy acres and we can get four wells on it. I want you to put a team together and get ready to move, but you mustn’t breathe a word about the location until you’re ready to roll. Every time we’ve planned something in the past, word has leaked out and tho
se nutters have been waiting for us. Only three of my executives know where you’re going to strike and I’ve sworn them to secrecy. From now on, in emails, letters and phone calls, we’ll refer to it as Project Genesis, and don’t worry about your bosses, they know something big is on but they don’t know what and they won’t ask you about it.’

  Beck started to laugh. ‘I know the property. It’s owned by a young troublemaker named Shawn Rosen, who I’ve had some run-ins with. I’m going to enjoy this.’

  ‘Will he be a problem? We can choose another property if you think he’ll cause trouble. You can’t fail on this assignment, there’s too much hanging on it.’

  ‘He’ll cause trouble all right but nothing I can’t handle, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. After we’re equipped and ready, we’ll move in the early hours of the morning and be driving through his gates at 4am. He’ll never know what hit him and by the time he does it’ll be far too late. I’m gonna enjoy this.’

  ‘Frank, I can’t stress how much is riding on this.’

  ‘Hell, you know the hard part is actually getting into the property but, once we’re in, nothing can stop us. Don’t worry, nothing’s gonna go wrong.’

  She had been hovering over the map, but now she eased back in her chair and the tension that had been in her face evaporated. She smiled. ‘Good. If you pull this off, how would you like to come and work for CEGL?’

  ‘Not if, when,’ he corrected her. ‘I’m always open to offers. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘This is highly confidential and, if it’s ever raised outside this office, I’ll deny that I said it. Are you clear about that?’

  ‘Mum’s the word.’

  ‘I expect to be moving back to Sydney after we finish drilling on the Scott-Tempy property and you’ve sunk your four wells, so my position in Paisley will become vacant. How would you like the job?’ She was watching him like a hawk.

  Frank Beck was a good card player and his face didn’t reveal anything, but he was laughing inside. When Spencer Harbrow had phoned him in Newtower he had also sworn him to secrecy and then offered him Moira’s job, in the event that she unexpectedly left the company. ‘It’d be quite a promotion, but I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it.’