Shoot Through

by J. M. Green

  Tuffnell pried open the clipboard, took all the paper out, and flapped the pages around. Then she scrutinised my lanyard, noted the photo, and scowled at me. I smiled and put it on.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you to Ranik.’

  Alan Ranik, according to my notes, was the general manager of Athol Goldwater. I gathered the papers, reattached them to the clipboard, slung my handbag over my shoulder, and marched after Tuffnell and the resonating clap of her boots spanking the lino. We came to a carpeted area for administration offices, and the clacking came to an end. She knocked at a door at the end of the corridor, and then opened it and went in. I followed. She had a silent interaction with a young man sitting behind a desk, and then turned and left without a word. The man waved me through to a second room.

  Behind the door, a small man with blond hair in a timeless pageboy cut, reminiscent of a Beatles wig, stood bouncing on his toes in the middle of a large office. Most of the office block had a prefab, temporary feel, but this room was decorated for permanence. The walls featured two large abstract paintings, some framed qualifications, and a bookshelf stocked with leather-bound books. A brown chesterfield said old money. The white MDF desk said Ikea.

  ‘Mrs Hardy, welcome. Pleasant journey?’ Traces of England in the rounded vowels and polite manner. We shook hands.

  ‘It’s Stella.’ The hair — I couldn’t help but stare. It seemed to be unironic.

  ‘Alan. Let’s get started, shall we?’ he said. ‘Time to make up.’

  ‘Let’s.’

  ‘I only have an hour and a half, I’m afraid. Then I’m meeting some department people. Should be plenty of time, and I’m happy to support it. Quite a good initiative, inspection teams.’

  He spoke as we walked, giving me a breakdown of the leadership team. ‘The operations manager handles the high-level, day-to-day operational needs of the prison.’ I trotted behind him, not giving two hoots about the leadership team. ‘… responsible for managing a team of custodial and non-custodial officers delivering a range of correctional services.’ Bored, so terribly bored. ‘… and our OM is highly experienced, twenty years in the UK.’

  ‘Are the staff here employed by BS12 or Corrections Victoria?’

  ‘BS12. I’m on a contract. But most staff are full-time employees, covered by an enterprise agreement. I can get that out of the files, if you like?’

  ‘No thanks. Can I meet him, the OM?’

  ‘He’s on leave. I’m acting OM until his return. Basically, the role ensures that policies and procedures are followed by liaising with internal and external stakeholders …’ I didn’t care. ‘… to ensure that offender-management issues and requirements are being met …’ Bored to the point of physical pain. ‘… and the services to the various areas within the prison, reviewing practice, and procedures relating to prison …’ Where was a cliff to jump off when you needed one? ‘… and court custody activities, and develop and implement policies and procedures …’ None of this was relevant to my brief. Maybe that was the idea, to drown me in guff. ‘… contributing to continuous improvement initiatives.’ He drew breath.

  ‘What about the regular prison staff? Like the woman who brought me here?’

  ‘Who? Oh, Nell? She’s not regular. She’s the principal practitioner.’

  ‘The PP.’

  ‘Yes!’ He regarded me with new interest. ‘It’s a key position, reports to me directly.’

  ‘But what is her role?’

  ‘Manages escalation behaviours …’ blah blah ‘… through line management by the RD and myself.’

  ‘RD?’

  ‘Regional Director. It’s in your notes. We helped write them. The PP works with the OM and staff from CV.’

  ‘Corrections Victoria?’

  ‘Yes. One big happy family: Adult Parole Board, Victoria Police, the Major Offenders Unit, Sex Offender Management Branch, Parole Central Oversight Unit.’

  ‘What about your average jack, I mean, screw, I mean, officer-guard-person?’

  ‘They ensure the smooth running of day-to-day operations.’

  ‘Overseen by the PP.’

  ‘The PP and the OM,’ Ranik said.

  ‘Okay.’ I clicked my pen and wrote, Nell Tuffnell followed by three question marks.

  When Ranik announced we would now begin a tour of the prison, I wanted to weep with joy. We walked to a maintenance garage, marked AGP Shed 1, where a fleet of prison vehicles waited. He clicked a fob, and a gleaming Land Rover with BS12 branding beeped.

  We drove along a narrow paved road linking the prison buildings, passing signs requiring all prison vehicles to drive at walking pace. At a fork, we took a path that led away from the main compound with the accommodation units and work areas, and continued through open paddocks for about five kilometres.

  ‘First stop, the agri-tech hub, up and running now for about three years. The future is tech. Even the hub building is hi-tech: steel prefab construction, lightweight, yet withstands cyclones and earthquakes. We’re at the forefront of agri-tech.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ I stifled a yawn. ‘Prisoners work here?’

  ‘Some. The ones with aptitude. Learn valuable skills here.’

  As we rounded a hill, a structure that was more warehouse than farm shed came into view. A massive, ugly skeleton of steel beams and struts supported sheet-metal walls. It was even bigger and nastier than the self-storage place where I’d stashed the fund. AGP Shed 2 was three storeys high, with multiple aerials and a large satellite dish on top, and a series of separate roller-door entries down one side. A dark-haired man in a check shirt and moleskins stood in the doorway, a mobile to his ear.

  ‘That’s Enrique Nunzio. He runs the tech side of things. Topnotch BS12 man.’

  I wrote, Enrique Nunzio.

  Ranik parked in the makeshift parking area beside another BS12 vehicle. A muddy path led to the shed. I glanced at my spotless cream mules and sighed. I should have known better.

  ‘Out you get,’ he said, impatiently.

  I took up my clipboard and tiptoed gingerly behind him.

  The man on the mobile greeted Ranik with an apologetic expression, and gestured to the phone.

  ‘Ah,’ said Ranik. ‘We may have to get by without Enrique today.’

  He waved me inside AGP Shed 2. The place was reminiscent of an agricultural show, replete with pleasantly familiar aromas: fertiliser, hay, manure, animal urine, bovine breath. But something was off; it was stark and sterile. Soft moos and grunts came from closed pens. I walked down the central aisle, security cameras positioned above me every five metres or so. A giant fan at either end of the shed circulated air. Halfway down was a series of small pens. I stood at a stall and slid open a viewing window. A fat black cow was contentedly chewing, there was fresh hay on the floor and water in the trough.

  ‘Here,’ Ranik said. ‘Have a look in the lab.’

  He led me to the rear of the building and pulled open a glass door. Carpet, new furniture, several desks, all with multiple monitors. Large plastic tubs full of stock eartags were stacked on the floor. A map of Australia, with stock locations shaded in, took up one wall.

  ‘Enrique is an expert in animal nutrition, grazing management, and pasture production. Had a very successful ranch in Argentina. With us, he’s initiated a GIS mapping program.’

  ‘What’s GIS?’

  ‘Geographic Information Systems. The project remotely monitors and analyses cattle. Through a deal between BS12 and a consortium of agri-businesses, Athol Goldwater Prison is one of a number of testing grounds. Bleeding-edge stuff. The data can be sent to an app on a smartphone. Imagine farmers assessing pasture performance from the comfort of their Jason recliner! It will revolutionise farming. Even the small pastoral holdings will benefit.’

  I thought of my father. And every farmer I ever knew in Woolburn. They like
d being outside, using their eyes and ears and hands. They inspected feed with their callused fingers and broke chunks of soil open to feel the dirt for signs of moisture. Were he alive today, my father would have thought sitting in our kitchen using an iPhone was a form of torture.

  ‘These technologies reduce costs, time, and labour, with the added benefit of improving animal welfare.’

  ‘Animal welfare? How?’

  ‘Earlier detection of disease or injury.’

  ‘Sounds like you don’t need farmers at all.’

  ‘Oh no, not at all.’ He laughed. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  I watched him pick up an eartag. It was like no tag I’d ever seen, more like a Fitbit for cows. There were an array of models. Beside the tags, there was a stack of objects that looked like plastic collars — large, cumbersome things. I picked one up. It was heavy.

  ‘What do these do?’

  ‘Ah, that’s even more ground-breaking. It’s a GPS locator.’

  I waited.

  ‘If cattle stray where they’re not supposed to, a mild electric shock is administered. Expensive fences will soon be obsolete.’

  ‘It’s a shock collar.’

  ‘I think of it as a mobile electric fence. The future of herd management. Neat, huh? Now I’ll show you how we attach the tags. The cattle are in the pens ready to go.’

  He took off at a trot. I hung back and opened a drawer: stationery, a couple of USBs. Another drawer contained a pile of invoices. I took some pictures on my phone, and as I was closing the drawer, bumped a keyboard. A monitor woke up. An open email appeared on the screen from ‘Al Coleman’: Enrique darling, we’re all set and ready to go here …

  I snapped a photo of that, too.

  ‘Stella? You coming?’ called Ranik.

  I went out and found him gazing at that one black cow. She really was a delight, with her glossy coat and lovely big wet nose.

  ‘Listen, Alan,’ I said. ‘These innovations really are marvellous, but I do need to inspect more buildings. Tick off the accommodation blocks for one, and then there’s AGP Shed 6.’

  Ranik’s shoulders slumped a little. We’d moved from his favourite topic to his least favourite. ‘Of course. Let’s go.’

  10

  RANIK DROVE back to the prison, turned off the main path, and headed towards a cluster of small weatherboard dwellings. ‘You’ll want to start at Callistemon.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘The unit your brother is housed in.’

  ‘Ah. They told you.’ Was that an attempt to unbalance me? I studied him for signs of smugness. He beamed, as though having relatives in jail was just terrific. I decided he was an idiot, too stupid to intentionally undermine anyone. ‘Good idea, let’s start there.’

  I checked Kylie’s papers in the clipboard. Ideally, Ben would sign them without Ranik noticing. It was possible Ranik wouldn’t care. But I wanted to keep it on the down-low. Otherwise, it would be apparent that this whole inspection initiative was not merely a cynical pantomime; it was also a shameless exercise in self-interest. And it was anyway, since it started with Pugh’s hunt for a moonlighting jack. I groaned inwardly, remembering that that, too, was on my list of clandestine chores for today. The principal one: dredging up a name for Percy Brash.

  ‘Benjamin Hardy,’ Ranik said wistfully. ‘If only all the inmates were as compliant. We support his rehabilitation by supplying him with top-quality ingredients. He’s such a talent.’

  A compliant talent? Ben? Ranik parked, and we got out and walked towards the houses. Ranik pointed to one of them. ‘That’s Callistemon. They’re not dangerous in there, but do still be careful.’

  ‘Right.’

  He suddenly stopped. ‘That prisoner’s death was a tragic accident, you know.’ He gave me a beseeching look.

  I shrugged. ‘Right.’

  He turned away. ‘We’ve cooperated with the investigations. Given access to everyone.’

  ‘Who’s everyone?’

  ‘The department, the police, CV, the coroner, Workcover, you name it. We’ve put on extra staff, stretched our resources. Every assistance, every step of the way. Whatever rumours you’ve heard to the contrary, we have nothing to hide.’

  Ranik trotted up the steps to the unit’s front door. From the outside, the unit was bare and institutional-looking. A plaque featuring a red bottlebrush was attached to the front door, the only aesthetic trace. No bars on the windows, only a deadlock to suggest that the people living here were being held against their will.

  Inside, Callistemon seemed much larger and was, in fact, a hub of four units, each with six bedrooms, a communal area for reading and watching TV, and a kitchen. The place was clean and neat, if a bit sterile. Ben was in the kitchen with every kitchen utensil, every pot, every burner in use.

  ‘Stella, Alan, come in,’ he said warmly. ‘You’re just in time.’

  Ranik lifted his nose to the air in exaggerated wonder. ‘What is that marvellous aroma?’

  ‘Chimichurri. An Argentinian special sauce. Perfect for barbecued meat.’

  ‘It’s ten in the morning,’ I said. ‘Bit early for a barbie.’

  ‘Never!’ Ranik said. ‘Love a morning barbecue.’

  Ben whistled, and five men in green t-shirts and shorts shuffled into the kitchen. They were dressed for a day in the garden or wherever. As Ranik said, they were harmless. Paedophiles, former cops, the people who’d be bashed on their first day in remand. Prison etiquette demanded it. Here, they were relatively safe. They were not violent and not well connected. Some of them were definitely unnerving, but not the kind to shiv you in the shower.

  Ranik stood among them as though they were all the best of friends.

  ‘What do you call this, then, Ben?’ one of the inmates asked, to a murmur of laughs.

  ‘Rissoles,’ some wag answered.

  ‘It’s a crunch bowl, love,’ Ben said.

  I’d never seen him so happy. The men appeared to like him.

  ‘Little late for breakfast, isn’t it?’ I asked. ‘You’re farmers. And prisoners. Prisoner-farmers. You should be up with the chooks.’

  They all looked at me with scorn. ‘We’ve had breakfast,’ one said. ‘Four hours ago.’

  ‘Bircher muesli with locally sourced fruits,’ Ben said.

  ‘Then what’s this?’

  ‘It’s brunch, Stella. A brunch crunch bowl. Jesus, we’re not animals.’

  He arranged some fried chicken and crispy chorizo on a bed of mixed ancient rice grains in seven bowls — announcing each item as he went — and poured in the chimichurri.

  ‘You cooked the chicken this morning?’ I said, incredulous.

  ‘He’s been up since five making all of this,’ one of the men said.

  Ben passed a bowl to each one. ‘Taste the cloves? Not too much, I held back this time.’

  Ranik’s phone rang, and he went out to the front veranda to take the call.

  To my amazement, Ben pulled me by the arm and hurried me out of the kitchen and into the communal sitting room.

  ‘Ben,’ I hissed, ‘what do you know about Joe Phelan’s death? And possible corruption in the prison?’

  ‘Never mind that, how’s Loretta?’ he hissed back.

  ‘Early.’

  ‘What? The baby?’

  ‘Relax, the baby’s fine. As far as I can tell. I mean, she turned up a bit earlier than I expected,’ I said, and hurriedly flipped the pages on the clipboard.

  He seemed so relieved that I paused. This was a side to my brother I didn’t know existed. I had to shake myself to focus. ‘Here. Sign these.’ I handed him the pen.

  He clicked the pen. ‘What am I signing?’

  I exhaled. ‘Kylie’s contract. Stating that you and I will not attempt to retake control of the farm.’

  ‘Well, maybe I
do want the farm. I’m learning a lot about cattle here. Animal husbandry.’

  ‘Idiot, you don’t even know about human husbandry. Stop being difficult.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m thinking about what I’ll do when I get out of here. I need a plan.’

  ‘Please, Ben. Loretta has my bed, and the dog’s staying, too. Please do me one favour.’

  ‘Dog?’

  ‘Nigel, the fucking dog.’

  A cloud of confusion came over his chimichurri-stained face. How close were Loretta and Ben, if he didn’t know she had a dog? He clicked the pen a few times, just to annoy me.

  ‘You’re so bossy,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  He laughed. ‘Like I’d ever want to live in Woolburn again.’

  And, sweet merciful Lord, he signed.

  ‘Thank you.’ I could have wept with relief. I checked on Ranik. He had just ended the call and was walking back to the unit. When I turned back Ben was scribbling on the paperwork.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Initialling each page. Make it legal.’ He gave me the clipboard and pen. ‘Your worship.’

  I didn’t have time to argue. ‘Ranik’s coming.’ We rushed back to the kitchen. ‘Quickly, tell me about Joe Phelan’s death,’ I whispered. ‘What’s the word among the inmates?’

  ‘Check the coriander pots outside Swainsona,’ he muttered.

  I had so many questions, but Ranik walked in and picked up a piece of chicken. ‘We’re behind schedule, I’m afraid. Have to cut this short,’ he said. ‘Just time for one more site to inspect. Any preference?’

  ‘AGP Shed 6.’

  The compound lacked shade, presumably by design, so that lines of sight were unimpeded. But the sun seared the earth’s surface from a clear blue sky. Ranik ate the chicken while driving the five hundred metres to Athol Goldwater Prison Shed 6. He stopped the car as a group of men returning from outdoor work, dripping and beetroot-faced, walked passed.

  AGP Shed 6 was still off-limits, and a guard was standing by. Ranik gave a curt nod, and I flashed the lanyard. Ranik twisted a key in the padlock, and the roller door retracted above us.