by Judy Nunn
‘You don’t have to read bloody newspapers,’ Kath scoffed. Fucking moron, she thought. Who reads newspapers these days anyway? Everyone gets their news online. Everyone except poor, thick-as-pig-shit Manny. ‘You’ve got bloody television, haven’t you?’ She knew damn well he did. When she went for her evening walk, she’d see him plastered to his TV every night of the week; the Papadakis cottage was only a block or so from hers and Buck’s.
‘Yeah,’ Manny nodded guiltily, ‘but I don’t watch the news much.’ He never watched the news: he loved reality shows, all of them, even the cooking ones. Reality shows were his favourites. Jeez, he wished Kath’d lay off.
Surprisingly enough, it was Ian Tuckey who came to the rescue.
‘Reffos have been in the news a helluva lot lately, Manny,’ he said benignly, ‘particularly Middle Eastern reffos like these ones out on the island.’
It wasn’t fair of Kath to pick on Manny, he thought, the bloke wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. For that matter neither was Nat Franelli. Kath should pick on a brain her own size.
If the truth be known, Ian wasn’t so much coming to Manny’s rescue; rather, he was picking the right time to enter the discussion. He loved a good verbal stoush, and Kath had just put herself right in line for one.
‘You see thousands of these reffos who’re escaping the conflict in the Middle East have flooded into Europe and they’re causing all sorts of strife,’ he explained very patiently to Manny. ‘Mainly because they’re Muslims and they’ve got different views about things, but a lot of people are scared because they reckon they might be terrorists. A misguided view in my opinion,’ he added with a smug look to Kath.
Kath knew instantly he was referring to their run-in at the meeting and that she was being baited. Fuck you, Ian, she thought and was about to fire back, but Nat Franelli got in first.
‘But these people on the island aren’t thousands,’ he said, puzzled. ‘There’s only eight of them. Hardly the same thing.’
‘It’s the symbolism, mate,’ Ian said significantly. ‘It’s what they stand for that matters. Eight Middle Eastern reffos have landed in Australia and they’ve been living here for months? The government wouldn’t want that to get out. It could open the gates for the hordes – they could come pouring in by the thousands.’
‘I don’t think they let this happen,’ Aappo said with another shake of his leonine head, ‘no I don’t think so.’
‘Course they bloody wouldn’t,’ Kath snapped, ‘he’s talking a load of bullshit!’
‘It’s not bullshit at all,’ Ian countered. ‘Righto, a touch of exaggeration about the hordes,’ he said with a patronising smile, ‘but the furore this could cause if it gets out! Crikey, no wonder the government wants to keep it under wraps. They’re in enough trouble already with their turn-back-the-boats policy, the rest of the world thinks we’re bastards not welcoming reffos with open arms. Australia needs this sort of publicity like a hole in the bloody head.’
Ian was thoroughly enjoying himself now, centre stage was where he belonged. ‘I tell you what, if the media gets hold of this there’ll be demonstrations all over the place, left-wing softies demanding these reffos be given asylum, hardcore right-wingers demanding they get kicked out because they reckon every Muslim’s a potential terrorist. It’ll be sheer bloody mayhem.’
‘And you’ll be on the side of the left-wing softies, won’t you, Ian?’ Kath sneered. ‘These reffos as you call them, who are really illegal immigrants …’ she stressed for the benefit of the others, ‘… couldn’t possibly present a terrorist threat, could they? In your opinion these eight are as innocent as newborn bloody babes, aren’t they?’
‘No, that’s not my opinion at all.’
‘Bullshit,’ Kath declared triumphantly. ‘Terrorists don’t travel in leaky boats, terrorists catch planes, that’s what you said! Your very words, mate!’ There, you bastard, she thought, got you now, good and proper.
‘Actually, Kath, they don’t even come by plane these days.’ Ian’s response dripped superiority. ‘They’re radicalised from within Australia itself. Haven’t you been reading the news lately?’ he goaded her mockingly.
You arrogant prick, Kath thought, Christ how she’d like to belt him.
‘I agree,’ he went on, ‘it’s quite possible these reffos on the island could pose a threat.’ He was addressing them all now, and in full pontificating mode. ‘The fact they follow Islam’s a threat in itself – they believe their Sharia’s above the law of the land. That’s the whole bloody problem with these people. And I’ll tell you something else for nothing,’ he went on, intent upon winding up his audience and winding himself up in the process, ‘Gary said, there’s a small boy with them, didn’t he? Well who’s to say whether in ten years’ time that kid mightn’t be radicalised? An out-and-out Jihadist like these young blokes who make bombs and want to cut off coppers’ heads in the street? You just don’t know, do you?’
‘Oh shut up, Ian!’ Kath had had quite enough.
‘Yeah, shut up, Ian.’ Manny had had enough too. He was accustomed to Kath’s belligerence, they all were, but he’d take her side any time rather than Ian bloody Tuckey’s. Gevaar Island fishers stuck together.
‘Too right!’ Young Nat Franelli exploded. He’d had far more than enough; he was thoroughly pissed off. Why should they have to sit around and listen to big-mouth Tuckey sprouting his smart-arse knowledge when their properties were at stake?
He stood, slamming his glass down on the table with such force that it shattered.
‘Shut the fuck up, for God’s sake! You don’t have a hut out there, do you? You’ve got bugger all to lose! No government bastards are going to burn your bloody house to the ground, are they? No one’s out there right now wrecking your bloody property, are they?’
Nat was getting himself so worked up that Archie and Mac, who’d wisely kept out of the conversation, hoped he wasn’t about to throw a punch. If he did they’d have to go to their mate Ian’s assistance even though, in their joint opinion, Ian had asked for it, the way Ian so often did.
‘I think no one wrecking our property. I think this not so.’ Aappo’s measured tones had an instantly calming effect. ‘Gary say this group on Gevaar are just people,’ a careless shrug of huge shoulders, ‘people he say just like us. Why they would wreck our property? I think no.’
Aappo actually had no problem at all with these refugees or illegal immigrants or whatever he was supposed to call them, these people who were living in his hut. These people were obviously in need and had sought shelter there.
‘I don’t mind they stay in our hut,’ he said, with a look to his sons, whose agreement was automatic. ‘Why I should mind if they do no harm?’
It seemed to put paid to the argument, whether the other fishers agreed or not. In any event the situation had been successfully defused.
Nat Franelli resumed his seat and Archie and Mac breathed a joint sigh of relief as they went off to buy the next round.
To the fishers and the townspeople of Shoalhaven alike the endless arrival of equipment and goods and supplies and officials had seemed a great deal of time, trouble and expense to outlay on just eight illegal immigrants. They had steadily come to the conclusion that the situation was of even greater significance than they’d been led to believe.
The curiosity of all had been aroused and a number of vessels, both professional and leisure craft, had ventured out from Shoalhaven, the fishers in particular keen to see for themselves exactly what was going on. The exclusion zone had been meticulously observed, but from their boats they’d watched through binoculars, and they’d zoomed in with their iPhones and cameras, taking pictures of the distant activity on the island and the strange tent-town that had mushroomed out on that barren rocky place. And naturally they’d reported back to Shoalhaven, where the rest of the townspeople were eagerly waiting to hear.
But for all of the talk and conjecture and local report-age, everyone respected the firm instr
uction they’d received with regard to the media. Any news remained strictly within the community of Shoalhaven, which didn’t prove difficult, for this was a community already close-knit. And besides, the town had no media. There was no newspaper, no radio station, and certainly no one made contact with the media in Geraldton or Perth.
So how did the word get out? No one knew for sure. But as the New Year of 2017 dawned and as the days crept on, it was clear someone had talked.
Enquiries were made around town. Had anyone sent a photo of the government camp to a close friend or relative? Yes, one or two honestly admitted, but they’d accompanied it with strict instructions that this was highly confidential. Had anyone phoned or texted the news to someone close? Again one or two said they had, but again with the strictest of instructions it was to go nowhere.
But somehow it had, from a relative to a relative’s friend, to a friend of that friend and to that friend’s friend, harmless to start with no doubt, but by then it had hit the digital highway. People were chatting on social media, people unknown to the citizens of Shoalhaven. On Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and other sites, the word was out there for all to see. It was rumoured the government was trying to cover up the arrival of boat-people on a remote island off the coast of Western Australia. Conspiracy theorists in particular were having a field day. This might have nothing to do with immigrants, some said, this might be an elite military training camp that the government’s set up in the middle of nowhere and wants to keep secret from the Australian people. Which led others to go a step further. It could be a training camp set up by terrorists, they said, ISIS might have landed right here in Australia.
And so the media descended.
Inspector Terence Henley was quite prepared for the onslaught and even agreed to hold a press conference mid-morning in the deserted dining room of the Shoalhaven Hotel. Best to give the media the bones of the facts, he and his superiors had decided. Get it over and done with, put a stop to the speculation.
Henley wasn’t in the least surprised all this had come to pass; in fact, he was amazed the news hadn’t been leaked much earlier. Even as he’d made his request of the townspeople to avoid all communication, he’d known it was inevitable they’d spread the word. Human nature, pure and simple. He’d actually expected the media to be on the case the very next day. The people of Shoalhaven, however, had taken him by surprise – it seemed they were a breed apart.
They’ve kept this secret to themselves for a whole two weeks, he thought. Astounding! Pity we couldn’t have dragged it out another week or so though; we’ll be bringing this mob ashore by then and we could have done it on the quiet. Now we’ll cop the full media circus. Pity about that.
Terence Henley might have been prepared for the onslaught, but the citizens of Shoalhaven were most certainly not. The influx of strangers wandering the streets of their town was not only unprecedented, it was invasive, not to mention the handheld cameras pointed in their direction and the microphones shoved in their faces.
The majority of townspeople avoided the impromptu interviews thrust upon them, ducking out of sight whenever they could – they did not in the least enjoy the experience. With the exception of Ian Tuckey. Ian was in his element.
Mawsie and Robbo, who ran the pub, were among the few who didn’t mind the invasion. Why should they? Their business was normally bar trade and pub food, but their upstairs accommodation was suddenly all booked out. Limited in number as their rooms were, they would have taken in more guests if they could, but those from the media who’d missed out were forced to commute to accommodation in Geraldton.
Henry and Florence Wong, too, were not unhappy with the situation. All of these people needed to eat! If they stayed for any particular length of time, Florence said to her husband, they might need their laundry done too.
As for the rest of the town’s businesses, they would have preferred to live without the added profit and see everyone leave.
But no one was going to leave. Not until the refugees had been brought ashore. And as the days passed, the assault on Shoalhaven continued to burgeon. A helicopter even flew over both the township and the island camp, filming aerial footage, which was shown on television news and current affair shows throughout the country and streamed online.
A large cruiser had also appeared, a charter from Gerald ton, and berthed in the marina with several camera crew and a journalist living on board. During the day they ventured out to film the island through their high-powered zoom lenses in the hope of capturing footage of the refugees, but without success. The government obviously kept these people well out of sight, perhaps hoping that, unseen by the nation, the interest in their presence might fade.
It didn’t. Everyone was waiting to see the refugees, who were currently the hottest news topic in the country. The subject was so keenly debated on talkback radio, commercial TV chat shows and the ABC’s evening panel discussion it even threatened to oust in importance the forthcoming inauguration of Donald Trump as president of the United States of America.
Those of the media who’d been placed on the scene were ordered by their superiors to come up with further material, the live footage and still images received so far being very limited. So the journalists and their teams became increasingly demanding of the locals, which was intensely irritating.
One particular on-air TV journalist from a national morning chat show, determined to outdo his rival network, was even more persistent than the others.
‘Come on, boys, don’t you want to be on TV?’
Jarrod Keeling flashed his most winning smile. A handsome man in his forties, tending to fleshy, his was a face that featured daily onscreen and in the pages of women’s magazines, setting hearts fluttering. He knew how to do charm.
‘You’ll be famous all over the country, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
Jarrod had already tried to win over several of the older fishers he’d learnt had huts on the island. ‘We’ll make it really worth your while if you can get us in closer,’ he’d promised when he’d asked them to take him and his crew out on their boats. But to a man – and to a woman – they’d said no. Well, Aappo Laaksonen and Buck Buckley had said no; Kath Buckley had told him to fuck off.
He was trying a different approach now with the young Laaksonen brothers and Nat Franelli, whom he and his two-man crew had hunted down at the marina. The six of them were standing at the end of the jetty where the view was picturesque, but Jarrod had filmed picturesque views already a dozen or more times, he needed to get out to the island, and closer than the five-hundred-metre exclusion zone. For this he needed young bloods willing to break the rules. So he was appealing to the vanity of these boys instead, and to their sense of adventure. Young studs always liked to strut their stuff on TV.
‘You’ve got boats, you boys, haven’t you?’ he queried. ‘And you’ve got huts on the island?’
‘Yep.’ Jukka answered for both his brother and Nat, but with a touch of surliness. He looked about at the three-man team, the smarmy journo whose face he knew well from the telly, the burly cameraman and the reedy little sound guy, no more than a boy. Their equipment was not operating, but they were standing at the ready, set to go at any moment. Jukka thought the journo bloke had a hide fronting up to him and Hekki when their father had already said no.
‘So where’s the harm in showing us where you live?’ Another flash of finely crowned teeth. ‘Australia’s very interested, you know.’
Jarrod had a feeling he wasn’t making much headway. All three of the young men were simply staring back at him.
‘Come on, boys, where’s your sense of adventure?’ he urged. ‘The authorities aren’t going to hang, draw and quarter you for breaking the exclusion zone. We’ll just zoom in and zoom out, eh? One of you boys on the wheel and Danny here on the camera.’ He gave a debonair laugh to match the smile.
But he still wasn’t winning.
‘The answer is no,’ Jukka said and the other two shook their heads,
still staring steadily at the journo.
Some might have found the situation a little unnerving, but it took more than three simple young hicks to frighten off the likes of Jarrod Keeling.
‘Right you are, no it is. But you boys don’t know the opportunity you’re missing out on,’ he said jovially. ‘Getting your face on TV is the way to win women, I can promise you.’
At that, the three exchanged a look and a smile. As if they could be had that easily!
‘Well we all like to win women, don’t we,’ Jukka said with a laugh, ‘but we’re not that desperate, mate.’
Breakthrough, Jarrod thought, misinterpreting the smile. If they wouldn’t take him out to the island, which they obviously wouldn’t, he could at least get an interview with three young studs who lived there. Better than nothing, he thought, giving a nod to Danny on camera and little Buzz on sound.
Within only seconds he and his team were fully operational.
‘Here I am reporting direct from the tiny town of Shoalhaven in Western Australia …’
Jarrod beamed at the camera. He didn’t need to avail himself of the microphone Buzz held; that was for his interviewees. He was already rigged for sound.
‘And I’m about to chat to several young fishermen who live on Geevar Island …’ He chose to use the term ‘fishermen’ as the local preference for ‘fishers’ would confuse his audience.
‘No you’re not, mate,’ Jukka said firmly, his mouth normally humorous now set in a hard line. Both the reference to ‘Jeevar’ and the term ‘fishermen’ had aroused in him instant and intense annoyance, as it had in the others.
Jarrod continued as if oblivious to the antagonism. He was accustomed to ‘foot-in-the-door’ style tactics when necessary, and any footage was better than none.
‘So tell me, boys,’ he went on while Danny, immediately reading the signal, homed in with his handheld on the young men, moving steadily from one face to another, a study of each, ‘what’s it like out there –’