by Gary Kemble
Harry tried to remember how many juniors had sat beside him. At least eight. Maybe ten. Some shone like a beacon, and were gone in as little as six months. A few decided journalism wasn’t for them, and moved to the dark side – government work or public relations. Others struggled but stuck with it. One guy did three years, before moving to another Chronicle – the Menzies Chronicle, a daily newspaper based a couple of hours’ drive west of Brisbane.
He doubted Christine would last another six months. She’d done almost twelve already, and was beginning to realise that, as with most local papers, the news cycle repeated each year. The new year, Australia Day, Easter, Anzac Day, and so on. Regular events that were the staple of the parish pump – that and the dirty half-dozen set stories. It wasn’t that Brisbane was boring: two rival outlaw motorcycle gangs – the Dreadnorts and Dead Ringers – had been fighting for turf on the southside a couple of months back; and just weeks ago a guy had been found guilty of bumping off his wife and dumping her body in a creek near Mount Coot-tha. It was just that their patch was more settled than most. Despite the property boom, they had a large proportion of baby boomers who weren’t going to sell up. As Fred once said: ‘What’s the point? Still gotta live somewhere, right?’ A couple of times, Harry had caught Christine checking out job ads online. Her heart wasn’t in it anymore. Not many Walkley Awards handed out for stories about Meals on Wheels, or accidents waiting to happen, or plans to gentrify some godforsaken shopping centre.
‘Oh, one other thing,’ Harry said. ‘Paddington water tower redevelopment. Fred’s arcing up. There’re pamphlets and everything.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. Awful. Comic Sans. Clip art. You know the deal.’
Christine snorted. Miles frowned, then slid some Post-it notes under his monitor, then back out again.
‘That’s not really our patch though,’ he said.
‘The developer is Swenson Constructions. Chermside-based.’
Miles dropped the pencil he’d been moving across the desk, then glanced up at Harry. ‘Swenson, hey? Could be a story there. Be careful, Harry.’
Harry nodded. ‘You know me. Careful’s my middle name.’
‘Thanks, folks.’
Back at their desks, Christine turned to Harry.
‘Why would you need to be ‘careful’?’ she asked. ‘Is Miles worried Swenson’s going to drop you into the foundations and dump a load of cement on your head?’
‘Something like that,’ Harry said. He felt dirt hitting his face and involuntarily shuddered.
He continued with the story he was working on, but he could see Christine in his peripheral vision. He typed another sentence. She folded her arms. Sighed.
‘What?’ Harry said.
‘You never tell me anything.’
Harry stopped what he was doing and turned towards her. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Okay, you tell me stuff, but not the good stuff. Not the interesting stuff. I’ve been here almost a year, Harry. You need to let me in more.’
‘Fair point,’ he said. He checked his watch. ‘Let’s go grab a coffee. A proper one. And I’ll fill you in on my history with Swenson.’
On the way over to the shops he told the story. It was something he thought he’d buried, but here it was, clawing its way to the surface. He wasn’t sure how Christine would take it. She nodded in all the right places, even threw in a few expletives.
The conversation died while they ordered and paid for their drinks. They switched to safer topics, such as the weather, and what Christine did on the weekend. Clubbing, dinner with friends, a surrealist art exhibition. It made Harry tired just hearing about it. By the time they’d been served their takeaway beverages, Harry assumed the conversation was over. But as they walked back across the car park, Christine wanted to get back into it.
‘So that’s why you’re still here?’ she asked.
‘Yep. That’s it.’
‘Harry. . . I don’t want to overstep the mark, but don’t underestimate yourself. You’ve got a lot going for you.’
Harry turned, raised his eyebrows. ‘Great. Now I’m getting a pep talk from a Gen Y puke!’
He meant it as a joke, but it came out with an unintended edge. Christine shook her head.
‘That’s soooo Gen X. No self-belief, but always a sarcastic remark on hand,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry. Things have been pretty crappy lately.’
‘And – there’s the self-pity.’ She grabbed his arm and laughed. ‘I’m joking. Before you start sulking.’
The sun gleamed off cars and baked off the bitumen. Harry wished he’d ordered an iced coffee. Ahead, two guys on a stepladder were attaching Christmas decorations to the floodlight poles. It wasn’t even Halloween yet.
‘At the risk of sounding like I’m digging for compliments – another classic Gen X trait – what exactly have I got going for me?’
Christine considered the question.
Shit, she’s trying to think something up.
‘You’ve always helped me out. You know, you haven’t held back – in that professional way,’ she said. ‘I know I came out of uni thinking I knew everything, but I learnt more real-world stuff in that first three months. . . and most of that you showed me.’
‘Uh-huh. So I’m not competitive.’
‘Stop it.’
She smiled. He hoped she’d grab his arm again, then pushed the thought away. Flirting with someone so much younger than him. It was pathetic.
‘And I think you really showed me the value of community journalism,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really want this job, to be honest. I only took it because my parents hassled me into it. But I can really see now how important the Chronicle is to people around here.’
‘You’re so full of shit!’ Harry said.
‘It’s true! Some people, anyway. You know how true it is once you get a couple of calls from people telling you you’ve fucked up their Community Diary entry.’
‘Yeah. There’s that.’
‘And that Meals on Wheels story. . . Don’t roll your eyes. It worked, Harry. If you hadn’t written that story, it would be gone.’
They walked in silence for a while.
‘And, you’ve got a tattoo now,’ Christine said.
‘And what difference does that make?’
‘You’re edgier now! Far more Gen Y.’
***
The afternoon disappeared in a blur. Christine worked on her stories and Harry on his. He took phone calls and lined up interviews, arranged for photographs to be taken. The TV in the corner was tuned to Sky News, where Andrew Cardinal talked and talked, Vessel nodding studiously in the background. Harry watched for a moment, until the picture cut back to the studio, where Terry Redwood was on what looked like a panel discussion. He was clearly loving every minute. His moment in the sun.
Harry shook his head. All his skeletons were tumbling out of the closet. He tried to distract himself with the to-do list on his screen, and instead ended up thinking about Bec. Part of him hoped she felt as crappy as he did. He hoped she missed him. Part of him nurtured the fantasy that she might call him up and apologise. But while he nurtured it, he recognised it as a fantasy. Like buying a lottery ticket and imagining how you might spend the money.
He flicked to Bec’s Facebook page, partly out of habit, partly out of a slightly malicious desire to see her in pain. She didn’t mention him. Her relationship status had moved from ‘It’s complicated’ to ‘Single’. It hurt that they’d been apart less than a week and she’d found the headspace to advertise it online. He clicked on her photos, knowing how sad it would make him. There were still photos of the two of them in there. From the housewarming party at their apartment. Even some from Europe, all those years ago. She had posted some photos from a work function a couple of nights before. He hovered over the names, prickled slightly when he saw a photo where she was hugging one of her male workmates.
Beside him, Christine stood up. Harry minimised the w
indow, checking to see if he’d been busted Face-stalking.
‘Another coffee?’ she asked, brandishing her KeepCup.
He shook his head. ‘Nah. I’m going to head off soon.’
He watched as she walked away, then returned his attention to his screen. He opened a story at random and started typing, fingers playing over the keyboard, eyes blurring slightly. He could write this shit blindfolded.
When his phone rang, his first thought was Bec. He pushed it away, ridiculed himself even as he reached for the handset, but was still slightly disappointed when he heard Fred’s wheezy breathing on the other end of the line.
‘Harry? Fred here.’
‘Hey, Fred.’
‘I got down to the library. Saw Bill.’
‘That was quick.’
‘Yeah, well, you know me. That symbol you showed me? It’s from the Middle East. Some sort of magic apparently,’ he said the word slowly – ma-jick – as though trying it out. ‘From Afghanistan. Harry?’
‘Yeah, Fred, I’m here. Sorry, I was trying to multitask.’
‘Nope. Blokes don’t do that. Is that any help to you?’
‘Yeah. Thanks very much for asking him.’
‘No problem.’
CHAPTER 6
The Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat skimmed across the waves as the last rays of light drifted from the sky. Rob checked his gear, then glanced back to where Dan and Tim sat. In the sea behind them was another RHIB and, beyond that, the low profile of Christmas Island. Ahead of them, just a dot on the horizon now, the MV Fajar Baru, a tramp steamer with possibly hundreds of Unauthorised Boat Arrivals on board. In the low clouds above it, lightning bloomed.
Tim leant over to him, yelling above the roar of the engine and the solid thump-thump-thump of the RHIB hitting the waves. ‘We’re gonna have to be quick.’
Rob shrugged. It’ll take as long as it takes.
There was an election looming; the government had taken a stand on people-smuggling. The PM didn’t want any more UBAs washing up on the Australian territory of Christmas Island, demanding asylum. Their mission was to turn the ship back into international waters, and the new Border Protection Bill gave the government (and, by extension, them) the power to use whatever means necessary to do that. They’d all studied the maps during the briefing. It’s okay for the Fajar Baru to be here but not there. On one level it was bullshit, but it wasn’t Rob’s job to question the politics of it. They had a job to do.
Rob was hoping they’d be able to do it the easy way. The Fajar Baru had picked up the UBAs after their small wooden fishing boat foundered off the coast of Indonesia. They’d done the right thing. If not for the crew of the tramp steamer, the UBAs would be dead. Initial radio contact advised the Fajar Baru to turn back into Indonesian waters. They acknowledged the message, but maintained their course for Christmas Island. Further calls had gone unanswered. It could have been that the radio failed. It could have been that the UBAs had disabled the radio. Or it could have been that they had taken over the whole vessel. Rob and his team were prepared for all eventualities.
Yeah, they were armed to the teeth. But Rob hoped it wouldn’t come to that. In the RHIB behind them, there was an army medic with as much gear as he could carry. The fishing boat had been at sea for at least three days, and the UBAs aboard the steamer for two days after that. God knew what sort of conditions they’d been living in before they set sail. They’d most likely be filthy, hungry and thirsty.
Ahead of them, the Fajar Baru grew bigger. A rust-streaked bridge rose up at the stern, overlooking the cargo decks below. From here, there was no sign of trouble. The ship was still making good headway, probably hoping to get to Christmas Island before the storm hit. Which wasn’t going to happen.
‘Get on the radio, Tim, let them know we’re coming,’ Rob said.
Tim set up his radio. He yelled into the microphone in English, then Bahasa. He screwed his face up. Shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
A low crack tore through the air.
‘What the hell was that?’ Rob said.
But he knew. The dickheads were trying to sabotage the ship. There were people running about on the deck. White splashes as bodies hit the water. Screams.
Fuck. This isn’t going to be pretty.
A secondary explosion tore through the ship. Light bloomed amidships. More white splashes as people jumped for their lives when flames erupted from below deck. On the bridge, a flash of frantic movement.
Tim got on his radio again, calling for backup. The HMAS Manoora was in the area. But by the time it got here, it would be too late to do much.
The steamer listed to one side, showing its deck. There was a rupture down the centre, billowing thick black smoke. Occasionally, flames would flare. Charred bodies slid towards the water.
‘She’s going down fast,’ Tim said.
Rob looked behind to check the other RHIB was still with them. The sea was getting choppier. Between the white-capped waves, faces appeared. Crying, screaming. A woman, trying to hold her baby above water. The charred back of a man, floating face-down. The closer they got, the more they comprehended the scope of the tragedy. Hundreds of people in the water.
The ship groaned. An ear-splitting shriek as the deck tore apart. Two splashes of orange, life rafts already overwhelmed by the tens of people struggling to get on board.
The RHIB slowed. Rob turned around. Dan stared back at him.
‘If we go in there, we’re gone,’ he said.
The other RHIB pulled level. Rob had to yell to be heard over the engines and the wind from the approaching storm. John looked over from the other boat, seeking guidance.
‘Get in there. We’ll do what we can,’ Rob said.
Dan cursed, shook his head, but sped up again. They skirted the edges. When the people saw the boats, a dreadful cacophony arose.
‘Keep to the edges,’ Rob said.
They pulled a woman on board. She coughed and spluttered. Started babbling in Farsi.
‘Tim?’
‘She wants to know where her son is.’
Tim talked to her, trying to calm her. Dan was right: this had the potential to go pear-shaped quickly.
They yanked a boy from the sea. Thick shock of black hair. Burns on one of his arms.
‘A couple more.’
‘And then what, Rob?’ Dan said.
‘Then we get the fuck out of here. Come back.’
Rob watched, horrified, as faces dropped under the waves and didn’t come up again. A woman with burns to her face, her hair gone. A man with a thick grey beard. A mob of people, mostly men, were swimming towards the boat. Closer to them, another man dropped below the surface. Rob grabbed his arm.
‘Hurry up, Rob,’ Dan said.
The hand slipped. Rob reached over the edge, almost sending himself over the side.
‘Rob?’
‘Throw them some life jackets. Something, for Christ’s sake.’
The other RHIB had arrived at the same conclusion, throwing their spare life jackets overboard. Flashes of orange against the grey sea.
Rob grabbed the man’s hand again, pulled back. This time the man came up. At first Rob thought his skin was burned black. Then he realised he was looking at tattoos. Squiggles, lines, dots. On the other side of the boat, Tim helped someone else aboard.
Rob grabbed the man’s pants and heaved him over. His shirt was gone. His back was covered in tattoos. Nothing Rob could make sense of.
‘Go!’ Rob said.
‘Got it.’
The RHIB’s engine throbbed. Dan brought it around in a tight circle, heading back towards Christmas Island. The front edge of the storm hit, peppering them with raindrops. The voices of those left behind rose, terror and anger and fear. A wounded animal, crying out in anguish.
Rob shook his head. The man rolled over, stared up at him.
‘Tashakkur! Tashakkur! Tashakkur!’
Tim translated: ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
The tatto
oed man spoke some more.
Tim shrugged. ‘He’s Ahmed. He says he owes you his life.’
CHAPTER 7
Harry jerked awake, panting. In those first moments all he could see were the old man’s tattoos, imprinted on his retinas. All he could smell was the sea. All he could hear were screams. He blinked his eyes, looked around his room. Then the pain hit him.
‘Ow!’
His upper arm felt as though someone had jabbed a thousand needles into it, then set them on fire. He squinted down, trying to find the source of the pain.
Spider? The place wasn’t screened. A spider must’ve. . . No. Even something like a redback wouldn’t be inclined to climb inside someone’s room just to bite them.
Snake? He had heard of people finding snakes in their bed, but it was usually in the middle of winter, or in the aftermath of a flood. The only flood Harry was experiencing was his sweat, soaking his t-shirt and sheets.
Harry turned on the light. The skin poking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt was black, blue and green. Not good.
‘What the. . .’
He tried pulling the sleeve up but it hurt too much. He rubbed his face, and his arm exploded in pain again.
‘Fuck.’
Harry steeled himself, then pulled his sweat-soaked t-shirt off. He looked down, expecting rotting flesh, an acid burn, shredded skin. No, impossible. He walked to the bathroom to get a better look.
A new tattoo: angry waves, white caps. It reminded him of that famous Japanese woodcut. Among the waves, a man: arm outstretched, mouth just above the waterline. Below the waterline, the vague outline of bodies.
Get them into the boat!
For a moment the man seemed to move on his arm, reach outwards, off his skin. Then Harry realised the tattoo wasn’t moving, his whole field of vision was ballooning. He gripped the sides of the sink. A wave of nausea washed over him, sweat prickled on his skin. Fear in his gut. The fear he’d dragged from the nightmare coupled with the fear of not knowing what was going on.