by Philip Bond
A dump truck pulls up suddenly, 100 meters further on from the service station, causing two cars to come to a nose-to-tail grief.
Refilling complete, the drivers involved in the collision argue heatedly as Geoff manoeuvres the news wagon out of the service station.
The passenger in the dump truck watches as the news wagon passes the accident. Geoff smiles, seeing blows exchanged.
The truck driver returns to the heavy vehicle firing the ignition.
The sun finally dips behind the mountain, surrendering its place in the sky to stars. Travelling towards the freeway to Sydney, the passenger looks to his watch, 8:32 pm.
“Move up.”
The dump truck changes down gears, increasing speed as they move down the on-ramp towards the news wagon five hundred meters in front. Now Luke closes to four car lengths from the news wagon. The passenger again issues instructions… “Take’m.”
The road’s clear in front and behind as Luke floors the accelerator, moving to the outside lane. Now alongside the news wagon, Luke swerves the truck, hitting the wagon, causing Geoff to sheer sharply left.
Until now, both passengers are dozing. The jolt startles Rick… “What the fuck’s that?” Looking out the window, seeing the truck ready to push into them again… “Geoff, watch out for the truck!”
“What do you think I’m doing, it slammed into us and is gonna do it again!”
Acceleration pushes the wagon to the shoulder as the truck hits again, slewing it under high-speed. Geoff taps the brakes while correcting his steering as the truck comes again, slamming the wagon.
Everyone is terrified, especially Harry… “For Christ sake, Geoff, look out, the bridge!”
“I see it.” Geoff tries pushing the accelerator pedal through the floor… “Have to get away from this truck otherwise he’ll ram us through the railings.”
The truck swerves away, returning with greater force, crashing into the wagons driver’s side front-wheel and fracturing a steering linkage.
“Oh fuck!” Geoff loses control as the wagon heads for the bridge. Momentum rolls the car, ripping the bonnet grill and bumper bar from the vehicle. Airbags erupt, the side window pops as the roof structure collapses and rear tailgate springs open. The bridge railing stops the vehicle from continuing over and into the water.
Luke stands on the brake, bringing the truck to an urgent stop. Both men survey the wreckage, as lights from a car appear some way behind. Time to leave, the driver extinguishes the lights to accelerate away into the night.
*
In the police holding cells, two police officers are taking meals to the detainees.
Opening the cell, they are confronted by Champion, hanging by a piece of electrical wire. A quick feel for a pulse confirms he’s deceased.
*
A digital clock high in the passageway reads 00:38 hrs. The emergency now hours old, Harry and Rick rest comfortably in private rooms while Geoff remains in intensive care.
Lighting’s subdued, and although resting, Harry’s awake. Looking up to the silhouette… “Hi, Phillip.”
In hushed tones… “Can’t think of another time we’ve been in a bedroom, with you in it and me not.”
With a bruised face and dressings covering two abrasions, on the outside, Harry’s calm, although trembling continues within… “Wonders will never cease.”
Never able to please her father, never feeling his love, care or support. She had to perform, live up to his demanding expectations, so, in later life, she chose shortcuts. Finding people to fill needs, the missing pieces of the emotional puzzle. She oft confused between love and need. Sexual intimacy the outlet, a release valve for inner emotional pressure and the absence of emotional bonding. Phillip serves the current purpose both sexually and career transparency. As far as Harry’s concerned, that’s all that matters.
“Received the word you three are in an accident.” He remains at the foot of the bed, unsure of what to do next… “And commanded the chopper to fly to the accident site.” His first thought is to get to Harry’s side instead, pulling strings transferring the team to Royal North Shore Hospital organising an emeritus surgeon friend to attend. The passage of time eases the emergency and heartbeats return to normal… “Christ, Harry,” especially Phillip’s… “I must be slipping, should have read the situation better and got you three out sooner.”
Events have yet to totally register, she remains rigid… “When do we put my story to air?”
“We promo’d the story tonight.” Phillip’s uncomfortable with emotional displays, grateful to be off the hook… “I was planning you linking the segments together, however, the doctor wants you to rest. I’ll get Brian to fill in. You’ll like the editing, Varsha helped.”
In suppressing trauma, she’s able to focus on contract renewal time… “Why can’t I go on, bruises and all? It would have one hell of an impact and would rate its pants off!”
Visions flash through Phillip’s mind, but… “It would; the doctor won’t agree. Besides, your ribs are bruised and need time to mend.”
“Fuck him! It’ll be good theatre and with clever promotional pieces, guarantee high ratings.” Determination supersedes discomfort… “They’re my ribs and you’ll give me time off, starting tomorrow. Start the promos, a bruised and battered Harry Reisner will be doing her report on organised crime tonight and we’ll pull better than a 70 share!”
Love that kind of talk… “Rate it will,” he’s not going to argue against a 70 share… “If you want, it’s yours.”
“I’ll do it!” This stuff produces ratings and awards and healthier contracts.
Business agreed, the next item on his agenda is… “Where’re you going to do your mending?”
Family is her first thought… “I think,” yet there remains the political links in the story to follow… “I’ll get out of town for a while. Maybe go to Canberra, see my brother.” If nothing else, it’s good cover.
“I’ll have a ticket waiting at the airport and an apartment in Kingston. You want a nurse?”
“Thanks Phillip,” independence kicks in… “No, I’ll be fine.”
Unsure if she wants company or to be alone, sleep isn’t coming easily this night as events remain fresh.
*
It’s six twenty-eight on the news set, Harry’s videotape report’s counting down. The floor manager cues… “Going live to Harry in five, four, three.”
Wearing minimal make-up, she focuses straight down the barrel grabbing the cue… “The answers given to us during the course of this investigation raise more questions, and the truth will only rise from the depths of this murky affair during a full and open investigation. My soundman Rick Wingate, cameraman Geoff Yoxall and I have each paid a price to bring you this story. All of us will mend, but Glen Champion pays with his life. Despite being charged with the murder, his suggested suicide needs, in my mind, scrutiny. All this under our noses, and the National Crime Authority mandarins decide to refocus attention on corporate crooks after abandoning that which it was set up for—investigating organised crime. The community needs action and we need it now! Harry Reisner reporting.”
In the control room, the producer fingers a key commanding life to camera one. The glowing red light on the front of the camera cues the newsreader.
“Thanks Harry, courageous effort. That is the way it is today, 21st October and from all of us here, good night.”
In a well-rehearsed fashion, the producer again dabs his fingers on another key, taking the life from the studio, rolling graphics and credits. A silence hangs over the studio until broken by the floor manager… “We’re out.”
Phillip’s standing on the studio floor in preference to the control room and can’t wait any longer… “Christ, Harry, you were great! This’ll rate its pants off. How do you feel? Can I get you anything? Let me give you a hand?”
She’s coming off the high… “I’m okay, let me be for a minute.” Pushing back into the chair and clearly mentally exh
austed, needing solitude… “No wait,” again, independence kicks in… “Call me a cab. I’m going home.”
None of the floor crew disagrees; Harry’s applauded, leaving the studio.
She’s quick exiting the studio, heading to the toilets to be alone.
Pushing through and locking the cubical door, she collapses onto the toilet, burying her face in her hands, trembling uncontrollably. Time stills, she’s oblivious to surroundings until… “Harry, is that you, are you okay?” It’s Varsha… “Can I help?”
The voice returns reality… “I’m okay,” her quivering reply. Ever the on-camera professional, composure quickly returns. She stands, straightens her back, dabs her eyes and unlocks the door.
Varsha stands almost aghast; no one’s seen this Harry Reisner and she’s not about to allow another. Immediately to the washbasin, she splashes water on her face before again straightening her back… “Thank Varsha, I’m fine.”
“Can I drive you home?”
“Thanks, no, I have a taxi waiting. I’ll be okay.” Stoically, she turns and exits.
*
Sleep doesn’t come easy. She’s not used to physical pain; emotional is so much easier to deal with. Then there is the subconscious reengagement of the freeway encounter. One laboured dream even features Neate in a leading role, on a bridge beside another travelled frequently by train. He angrily waves a large handgun threatening to shoot everyone in the vicinity. Fortunately, all are spared certain death by the morning alarm and instant reality.
*
Kingsford Smith Airport Sydney, like other major airports the world over bustle with the frantic pace of constantly moving aircraft, as a disciplined air travel, Harry arrives at the check-in counter for her ticket and seat allocation… “My name’s Harry Reisner,” it’s thankfully short… “You have a ticket here for me, to Canberra on the ten o’clock flight.”
Last night’s special report helps the six o’clock news achieve a 70% increase in viewers. Harry’s fame also dramatically increases… “Don’t need identification for you. See your report last night.” Even the airport check-in attendant comments… “It was great. I hope they get the so-and-so’s that run you off the road.”
Harry’s an accustomed public figure; first it’s the taxi driver then people entering the departure area and now the check-in. The report seems to open a floodgate… “So do I. Thanks.”
The fame is everywhere as she moves through the airport security barrier without question or check, making tracks to the executive lounge.
What’s a Nice Girl like You Doing in a Place like This?
A voice announces boarding; it’s off to the aerobridge and the waiting winged aluminium tube.
Further testament to the audience share, cabin attendants she called by name in directing to the seat.
Politely, she thanks them before occupying a window seat.
In settling, she gains an elbow buddy. Both exchange customary short pleasantries as flight attendants start their demonstration rituals.
The elbow buddy leans over… “Funny how people don’t pay attention to this stuff. They just read the paper; look out the window or anything else except what may save their lives. Hi,” producing a hand… “I’m Lloyd Sanders and you’re Harry Reisner. See your piece last night on the news.”
The accent is not to be ignored… “And you’re an American, thank you.” There’s a strange unusual vibration; immediately, she turns her head to the window hoping to cease further conversation.
“Sure am,” he’s not put off by a turn of the head… “So, you’re off to another big story maybe, in Canberra?”
Returning to pleasantries, intending to offer just enough in politeness yet no encouragement, silently pleading for anonymity. Silence descends in taxiing to the threshold.
Engines thrust, forcing the self-loading cargo into the back of their seat as the winged aluminium tube builds in force until lifting off the runway. Climbing steeply, whirring motors sound as the wheel’s fold in with a thud.
Sanders returns to talkative… “Must have been hairy the other night on the freeway?”
“Something I don’t want again.” Shuddering at the thought.
Interest continues, questioning the health of the others in the car. She tosses a glace to the ruggedly handsome man in his late forties and obviously physically fit yet there is an unease about him… “Geoff remains in hospital and Rick’s arm is in a sling.”
He’s stopped talking, Harry closes her eyes. He’s jotting items in a notepad.
Engines now the only sound, thankfully.
Sleep for Harry isn’t possible as he closes the notepad.
Silence interruptus… “You’re all lucky by the sounds of it.” Such an inquisitive yet casual manner… “Do the police have any leads?”
A cabin attendant offering fruit juice interrupts the discussions. Harry declines; the American accepts. As the attendant leaves… “So far, nothing.” Clouds obscure the view out the window.
“Anyone get a description of the felon?” He’s not getting the silence message.
“Not really.” There’s nothing in the seat pouch worth reading.
“What about your story,” pausing to sip… “They going to follow up?”
The difficulty with air travel is it’s public; once cocooned, it’s impossible to get away from a talkative fellow traveller. She’s thankful it’s only a Canberra flight… “Maybe, don’t know.”
The American continues his juice… “Reisner, that’s German?”
“Austrian.”
“Maybe that’s where the determination comes from?” Emptying his juice.
Again, engines now the only sound. Thankfully.
“I guess so.” Harry always wanted a magic wand. Fortunately for the elbow buddy, no such thing exists.
“Do you think you’ll be safe in Canberra?”
Such a chilling comment, looking Sanders in the eyes… “Would you like to see that as a headline?”
“And lose a good investigative journalist, hell no.” Conciliation prevails… “Listen, I’m in Canberra on business. However, there’s a reception thing at the American embassy. If you have some free time, why don’t you come along?”
The pitch of the aircraft engines changes.
Cabin attendants commandeer the aisle dispensing coffee or tea to the deserving. Harry jolts to the question… “Are you asking me out on a date?”
“Good lord no!” Onto the back foot… “You would get to meet new people and you have the time, why not enjoy the theatre?”
Impulse or intrigue, regardless… “Why not?” Harry responds.
“Great. Where do I get an invitation to you?”
“Send it to the television station, I’ll collect it there.”
“Great, bring a friend. It’ll be a hoot.”
The captain’s voice over the intercom ends further conversation… “Ladies and gentlemen, we are fifteen kilometres out of Canberra on the glide path for landing. You’ll be disembarking through the forward door for the terminal in seven minutes. I hope you enjoy your flight with us today and trust you will choose to fly with us again.”
The elbow buddies grab the cue, sitting in silence, finally.
*
It’s bright and sunny in Canberra, a slight breeze, wafts eastward the only cloud in the sky. Landing smoothly, the pilot taxis to the departure gate.
Rummaging the overhead lockers precedes the exit.
Through the door into the terminal, she’s heading downstairs looking for her ride.
“How is my girl?” It’s Gary at the bottom of the escalator.
“Hi Gary,” safer the devil you know… “Thanks for being here.”
First a gentle kiss to each cheek then to luggage collection.
Shop talk occupies the travel from the airport.
The second-floor apartment in Kingston is one of thirty units, decorated in the modern trend including all facilities. Having not seen each other for over a year, i
t’s coffee and talk. Conversation circles, continuingly ending up at the drug story.
“Have you spoken to your brother, to see what light he can shine on the story?”
“Only to tell him I’m okay, although it’s an idea.” Annoyed not thinking of it first, she corrects the oversight… “Yes, Günter might know something.”
Grabbing the telephone to dial.
An unfamiliar voice answers… “Hello, is Günter Reisner there please?”
The voice instructs her to hold, hearing the voice announcing Harry is on the phone. Seconds pass until… “Harry, are you mending? I see you on the news, powerful stuff, kid.”
“I’m okay. I’m in Canberra. I need help; what do you hear about my accident?”
“There’s nothing I’ll talk about over the telephone.” Brotherly concern surfaces, again… “Come stay with us.”
Visiting’s okay… “Have an apartment in Kingston,” but not to stay… “I’ll come by soon.” Looking out the window to the enticing pool.
“You’re okay?” Brotherly concern remains.
“Of course, I have network things to do while here.”
“Okay, call me when you’re ready, I’ll pick you up.”
On hanging up the phone… “That story burns you once, why don’t you leave it alone?” Realising it’s a silly question, Gary changes tact… “So, what about dinner tonight?”
“I have an invitation,” offering the through-away… “To a reception at the American embassy.” Her suitcase sits on the bed unopened; she’s not about to unpack with him here.
“How come?” His interest alights.
“An American on the aircraft,” this is the same reason Gary became boring… “We got talking and he offered.”
“Just one?” Sheepishly.
Typical Gary… “If you promise to behave,” she knows where this is heading, “you can come along.”
“Great, I’ve been trying to break into the invitation list for ages.”
As if she does not know… “I guessed.” Alas, the more things change, the more they stay the same… “The invitation’s being delivered to me at the station.”