Sweet One

by Peter Docker

  First published 2014 by

  FREMANTLE PRESS

  25 Quarry Street, Fremantle 6160

  (PO Box 158, North Fremantle 6159)

  Western Australia

  www.fremantlepress.com.au

  Also available as a pbook.

  Copyright © Peter Docker, 2014

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Editor Georgia Richter

  Cover design Ally Crimp

  Cover photograph Orien Harvey, ‘Broad Arrow Tavern, WA’

  Printed by Everbest Printing Company, China

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Docker, Peter, author.

  Sweet One / Peter Docker.

  ISBN 9781922089762 (ebook)

  A823.4

  Fremantle Press is supported by the State Government through the Department of Culture and the Arts.

  Publication of this title was assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

  Contents

  Nana Was Right

  Faith

  Wake Up, Australia.

  Separate

  The Gloves Are Off

  Death in Custody

  A Picture

  Fun at Skull Creek

  Rules of Engagement

  Big Bill

  Got a Job

  Ex-Parrot

  Old Testament Zone

  Better Colour

  Too Hot

  Invaded

  Dead Story

  Blowim Bodies Clean Outta Town

  Ringing Mum

  Other Bodies

  Bedouin Ambush

  Early Opener

  Queenie

  Stay Down

  You Knew

  Wild Dogs

  The Denver Please

  The Wide Clint Eastwood Street

  The People Have Always Lived Here

  Explaining the Racial Vilification Act

  Rock Holes and Old Shafts

  Paper Trail Gone Cold

  Local

  The Blue Prawn

  Wee Tits and Mata Hari

  Tribal Rambo

  Visiting Time

  On the Road

  Laughing and Shooting

  Straight to Hell

  Too Good

  Old Tyre Camp

  Equal

  The Company Tit

  Revolution

  In This Together

  We’re All in It

  Just You, Me, and Fifty Mill

  They’re Coming for You, Neo

  Number 2 Wood

  Famous Five and the Loan Shark

  Don’t Leave Town

  Charcoal and Camel Shit

  Make Him Bleed – That Kind

  Sea of Tears

  Main Target

  Embedded

  War Zone

  Blogger

  Animal Bar

  Baton Change

  HE Goat Herder

  Fill Your Hand, You Son of a Bitch

  Bringing Him Home

  White Cunts

  Do What We Always Do

  Acknowledgements

  Peter Docker was born in Narrogin, Western Australia, the son of a motor mechanic, and grew up on remote Lort River Station, Coomalbidgup. He studied writing at Curtin University, Perth, and acting at Victorian College of the Arts, Melbourne. As well as an extensive career on stage, Peter Docker has published a number of full-length literary works and short stories, and has written for stage and radio. He now lives in the Kimberley, Western Australia, and continues to write about the no-man’s-land where black and white Australia meet. He writes about our nation’s search for truth, and about the myriad ways that anyone can look into their heart – and find love. Sweet One is his third novel, following Someone Else’s Country (2005) and The Waterboys (2011).

  Developed with generous assistance from the Louis St John Trust.

  This book is dedicated to two soldiers: my maternal grandmother’s brother Peter Moate, who fought with the 2/4th Machine Gunners, was taken prisoner by the Japanese in Singapore in 1942, and subsequently worked on the Burma Railway as a POW; and my paternal grandfather Dock, who served on the Somme with ‘The Old Contemptibles’, fighting the Germans in 1914–18.

  I know there are no endings.

  No beginnings.

  Just step after step.

  Evolve change.

  Change evolve.

  Step after step.

  I covered this story. From the beginning.

  It went like this.

  Or so I thought at the time.

  (Sent from Izzy’s BlackBerry)

  Nana Was Right

  (Somerset, outback Western Australia)

  Feel the heat. Feel its texture. Feel how the very air is woven into a denser pattern, with the stitches and purls falling back upon themselves. The heat blankets the country like a pea-soup fog, seeping right into the bones. Feel the heat radiate up from the land herself. The sun has gone now but it feels hotter still. The Old Man is a friend to the heat. The heat is like a cousin/brother he has known since birth. All the character nuances of the heat are as familiar as the smoke from the family fire. But not this heat. This hot wind is here at the wrong time. There has already been much discussion between the Old Man and his peers. What is the meaning of this heat at the wrong time? There is some great disturbance in atmospheres way beyond this continent – that is all that can be agreed upon. The Old Man knows that weather patterns here have their origins way to the north, around the mountain ranges of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Old Man understands the connectivity of all things. Inside the heat, even this unseasonal heat, the only thing to be done is to survive. To go on living. Understanding will come later.

  It’s Anzac Day. 25th April. Ninety-odd years ago Australian and New Zealand soldiers under the control of English High Command swarmed onto the wrong beach in distant Turkey under a merciless hail of machine-gun and artillery fire. The Old Man knows the story of that first day only too well. His Grandfather told him the story over and over. It had been a warm day in Turkey as well. That story is woven into the family history, as well as the history of the nation to which his Grandfather did not officially belong. The truth is, his Grandfather never wanted to belong, and his exploits in the AIF had nothing to do with this thing that would later be thought of as a nation. Before Gallipoli and France, his Grandfather had little to do with white men and uniforms. And after, even less so. The Old Man knows exactly how his Grandfather felt. Things go in cycles – that is for sure.

  Now the Old Man can see two white men in uniform. And him got no mob. All alone. They sit in the front of the brightly lit divvy van pulling up behind him. The Old Man turns off the engine of his Troopie. It is quiet now, with the police lights flashing across the deserted road, washing everything with momentary blue. The Old Man picks up the white can of Emu Export lager nestled between his legs, drains it, and drops the empty can on the floor of the passenger side with all the other shit. In his rear-view mirror, the Old Man sees Senior Constable Lishtokitz get out of the paddy wagon and start to come towards him. The Old Man sees the blast of heat hit the white man as he climbs out of the air-conditioned police vehicle. Lishtokitz almost staggers as though a bag of wheat was dropped onto his shoulders – but then catches himself and strides out to where the Old Man waits.

  G’day mate, Lishtokitz says to the
Old Man.

  Hello, says the Old Man amiably.

  Do you know why I’ve stopped you?

  Cause I’m the only one drivin!

  The Old Man cackles and looks around the deserted dirt track so that the younger white man can have a chance to get the joke. The younger man in uniform does not acknowledge the Old Man’s quip in any way. It’s Anzac Day. Australians everywhere are drinking beer and burning meat while the Southern Cross and Union Jack against a background of blue flutters overhead. They are talking about far distant places like Gallipoli, Lae, Tobruk, Long Tan, and drinking more beer. They are playing two-up, discussing the colour of medal ribbons and their meanings, and drinking more beer.

  This is a random breath test. I will require you to blow into the device with one long continuous blow.

  Lishtokitz holds up the breathalyser to the Old Man. The Old Man regards the plastic tube suspiciously. He’s been here before.

  Have you been drinking, mate?

  Only beer.

  How many?

  Eh?

  How many only beer?

  Yuwai. Only beer.

  Fluent in five languages, English was the last one learnt, and the hardest for the Old Man. But even his grannies know that he understands more than he lets on. These are survival techniques on the frontier. The Old Man was living as a naked child of the desert, wild and free, when he was first studied by gudia anthropologists. They learned. He learned also.

  One long continuous blow...

  The Old Man blows into the plastic tube. Senior Constable Lishtokitz steps back. He is sweating heavily now. The Old Man regards him evenly. Lishtokitz wants to watch the Old Man all the time. He’s heard they can beat the breathalyser with their didgeridoo breathing techniques. But he can’t hold the Old Man’s eye. And isn’t sure why. The hard ground beneath his feet feels soggy for a moment. The handheld breathalyser beeps.

  Sir, I am going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.

  As soon as the Sir tumbles out of his mouth his mind juxtaposes it with mate like a Google-search. He went for Sir because you can’t say get out of the car, mate. Now it all sounds wrong. It should have been Sir all along, the Google-search result seems to say. The Old Man doesn’t move.

  Get out of the car, now!

  His voice is too loud in the desert night. The trees look on passively through the heat. Constable Slopken is getting out of the police vehicle and moving quickly to the scene, his right hand on his holstered Glock. The Old Man slowly opens the door of the Troopie. Not rushing is second nature to him. Rushing around can get you killed in the desert. You’d be walkin round dead. He climbs down and stands steadily in the desert night.

  I’m placing you under arrest for DUI. Do you understand?

  The Old Man smiles and holds out his hands ready to be cuffed.

  Lishtokitz nods at Slopken who takes out his cuffs and places them on the Old Man’s wrists. Slopken walks the Old Man back to the police vehicle. Lishtokitz leans in and takes the keys from the ignition of the Troopie. He winds up the driver’s side window and locks the door. On the back seat Lishtokitz sees an old suit jacket with a little row of medals pinned to the lapel. For a moment he considers grabbing the Old Man’s jacket – but fuck it, it’s too hot. He goes back to the divvy van where Slopken is just climbing back in, having loaded the Old Man into the back. They drive in silence through Somerset back to the station, both men leaning forward to feel the cool air being blasted out by the aircon hitting their skin. It takes two minutes. The town could be a ghost town. The pub is full but the streets are empty. Somerset is named after some English lord, who no doubt never set foot in the place. He probably financed some prospectors, or graziers. These guys were like hedge fund managers investing in the joint venture of taking over WA. And they got to have things named after them as a bonus. That’s the way these things go.

  They pull up right out the front of the police station, and get the Old Man out of the back. They take him in through the heavy glass front doors. It’s one of those low flat modern concrete buildings that look like it is designed to withstand a cyclone, or a bomb attack.

  Sergeant Smithers is standing at the front counter as they come in. The cop shop aircon is cold after the outside heat. The Old Man shivers as if someone just walked over his grave.

  Well, look what the cat dragged in! calls Smithers.

  Hello, says the Old Man as though nodding to a mate in the front bar.

  Are you calling us cats, Sarge? asks Slopken.

  DUI, says Lishtokitz to no one in particular.

  Tjilpa, says the Old Man.

  What’s that? asks Smithers.

  Tjilpa – desert cat, explains the Old Man.

  We haven’t dragged anyone, adds Slopken.

  Wha’d ya cuff him for – ya Neanderthals? barks Smithers.

  He held out his hands...

  Get them off him. Get him processed. Fuck me dead.

  Slopken takes off the handcuffs and they lead the Old Man through to the testing area. Smithers leans down to get some paperwork from under the counter.

  What’s up his arse? murmurs Slopken.

  Smithers looks up.

  It’s Anzac Day, Slopken – something you wogs wouldn’t understand.

  Lishtokitz sits the Old Man down in the chair.

  Whaddya mean, Sarge? Us New Aussies love the flag!

  That flag has been draped on the coffins of our dead boys – ya can’t wrap yourself in it and get pissed, or hang it out the back of your orange Commodore with mag wheels.

  You having a go at my Commodore, Sarge?

  You’re outta your depth, Slopken.

  One long continuous blow, says Lishtokitz, and holds the plastic tube out to the Old Man.

  The Old Man blows into the device until it beeps, and then he sits back.

  What’s the reading? asks Smithers, already halfway through the form.

  Zero point two three one.

  What does that make it at time of offence?

  Point two two two.

  Slopken is looking over Smithers’ shoulder as he does the form.

  Do you know him? asks Slopken.

  Course I fucken know him. He’s a big boss man out at Burwarton.

  Slopken doesn’t know that Burwarton is another of the English peerage. He goes and gets the fingerprint station ready.

  So he’s the boss of a couple of tin sheds and a dozen car wrecks? comments Slopken with a twist of his mouth.

  He laid the wreath this morning for the Aboriginal soldiers. That’s why he’s in town, says Smithers.

  What’s he a veteran of, the Battle of the Animal Bar?

  He was in Vietnam, fuckhead. Recommended for the MC three times.

  Did he ever get one?

  Did Polly Farmer ever win a Brownlow?

  I only follow European football, Sarge.

  It’s called soccer, you fucken dipshit!

  Why do you go to the dawn service, Sarge? Anzac Day always puts you in a bad mood. You got medal envy?

  Piss off!

  Smithers is imagining Somerset and Burwarton getting together in a gentlemen’s club in London for an Anzac Day drink. Sitting in fat leather armchairs toasting the Queen with forty-year-old Scotch, patting themselves on the back for providing the Empire with such robust and ready cannon fodder. Smithers shakes off the fantasy and steps up to the Old Man. The Old Man sits quietly with his eyes closed.

  You are under arrest for driving under the influence, with a blood alcohol reading of point two two two. Do you understand?

  The Old Man nods.

  You will also be charged with driving contrary to conditions of an extraordinary licence. Do you understand?

  The Old Man nods again.

  Now, I’m gonna haveta send you to Baal in the morning. Do you understand?

  The Old Man nods. His gaze seems to fall on nothing in the police station. He is thinking of a song. Feeling for it. He’s not sure what it is yet. It’s this place. />
  Because you’re a cheeky fella. Cheeky fulla go walkabout. You walkabout – no show court.

  The Old Man smiles as if at a memory.

  I wanna go to sleep, he says.

  His eyes are closed as if he is finished with this procedure now, and doesn’t want to look on these images. The world we can see is an illusion. He closes his eyes as if he is imagining himself away from this place. Out in his beloved desert country. Away from white man police. Away from Anzac Day and all the talk of sacrifice.

  You want me to ring someone in Burwarton?

  Sleep now, the Old Man says to the polished concrete floor.

  All right. You sleep. Tomorrow Baal lockup.

  Slopken ushers the Old Man over to the processing area. At 10:10 pm Smithers signs the Form 5 bail record form, refusing the prisoner bail.

  It was only last year when Smithers attended court as a witness in a case against the Old Man, and the Old Man didn’t show. Going to court is such a pain in the arse. A day lost.

  Smithers records two reasons: if the accused is not kept in custody he/she may fail to appear in court in accordance with his bail undertaking; and if the accused is not kept in custody, he/she may commit an offence. At 10:15 pm Smithers picks up the phone and dials. It rings for a long time. A woman answers.

  Rankin.

  Sergeant Smithers, Somerset Police.

  Yeah.

  I have a prisoner for transport tomorrow morning.

  You’re kidding.

  I’m not.

  It’s Sunday on a long weekend.

  What’s your point?

  Bail him and he can appear in your court next Tuesday.

  We’ll bail him and he’ll go walkabout. I want you to pick him up tomorrow morning.

  Rightio then.

  As long as it’s not too much trouble.

  Get fucked.

  She hangs up. Smithers puts down the receiver, shakes his head. The worst thing the state ever did was to privatise the prisoner transport. It’s always the same with the GPL4 supervisor, Rankin. Wouldn’t work in an iron lung. Smithers looks over and nods to Slopken.

  Slopken leads the prisoner out to the cells area. It’s empty. All the mob are out at the community where the Old Man has driven in from. No one in town to fill the cells tonight. No animals for the Animal Bar. That’s why the cops are driving around bored. Don’t know how to do nothin – these fullas. The Old Man goes into the cell and is lying on the bench by the time the open-barred door clangs shut behind him. Slopken doesn’t mean to slam the door, but it’s so heavy that even a little bit of momentum in the door-swing will guarantee a cage-shaking locking of the cell. 10.30pm. Anzac Day.