Sweet One

by Peter Docker

  When the Old Man wakes he is dehydrated and disorientated. There are two white men standing at the cell door talking: a policeman, and the local JP, Finn Macomish. Macomish is a red-faced stocky bloke. He holds his akubra hat in his hands, and constantly smooths down the front brim. The Old Man recognises the cop.

  Charleston, says the Old Man, and moves his feet in a one-two shuffle gesture, originating in his knees, to demonstrate the charleston.

  Senior Constable Charleston smiles.

  Hello, Old Man.

  Him your good boy? the Old Man asks, so fast and running all the words together, that Macomish the JP misses it. He is looking at the brim of his hat.

  You have to get used to the desert accent. Charleston smiles and nods. The JP has lived out here all his life, and still can barely understand a word.

  The Old Man grins to himself.

  Good morning, says the good boy. Had a few drinks last night, did we?

  The JP speaks too slowly and too loudly, like an Australian tourist ordering soup in Saigon. Charleston rolls his eyes. He knows this is just Smithers’ usual bullshit but there is nothing he can do about it. The Old Man should’ve been released on bail.

  Water? asks the Old Man.

  The JP asks him his name. He tells them his white man name, cause that’s what they want to hear. The JP tells him that he’s gotta go to Baal. Already knew that. The policeman sends his good boy away.

  You got im cuppatea?

  Charleston smiles, unlocks the cell, and leads the Old Man out the back of the station to the kitchen area.

  Ngamari?

  Charleston nods and takes out his Winnie Blues and gives the Old Man two cigarettes. The Old Man looks at the two tailor-mades in his hand.

  Waru?

  Charleston hands over his lighter.

  Kettle, tea, sugar – help yourself. You can go out the back, he says, and gestures to the backyard.

  The Old Man makes himself a cuppatea. He uses two teabags, four sugars and a generous splash of long-life milk – all in the big fat CIB mug. Then he carries the big fat CIB mug out the back door of the station. He finds a spot near the cyclone fence where he can sit on an old drum. He sits down, places his mug of tea on the red earth, takes out the first cigarette, and lights it up. He takes a draw on the smoke and looks up. Just above is a big old wurrung, his black feathers iridescent in the morning sunshine. Their eyes meet and they let out a little sigh. The crow flies off. The Old Man applies himself to his cigarette.

  Charleston is at the front counter when the GPL4 Mazda van pulls up.

  What a heap of shit, thinks Charleston.

  Howell comes in first, with Stockbow just behind him. Howell looks like he doesn’t belong in uniform, even the shitty grey GPL4 attire. There is a knack to wearing a uniform. And you’ve gotta have pride. To Howell the uniform is just clothes. He has heavy rings around his eyes, and his skin is puffy and red. His gut hangs over his belt. Charleston was born in his police uniform. He works hard in Lishtokitz’s backyard gym, and he hates fat people. Greedy and lazy. They walk in mid-argument.

  Well ya shouldn’t have fucken said yes if ya didn’t wanna come, Howell says.

  Don’t be a wanker, I’m just sayin ... says Stockbow.

  She stops when she sees Charleston. Charleston is why she really came.

  Senior Constable Charleston, she says, and tries to look bright.

  Youse both look like shit, comments Charleston.

  Smithers’ bullshit is really starting to grate now that these clowns are here.

  Anzac Day. Didn’t ya have a sip? asks Stockbow hopefully.

  Dawn service. Then I went for a long run, says Charleston.

  It was too hot.

  I love the heat, says Charleston flatly.

  Me too, says Stockbow, but not this time of year. Felt like Australia Day. Fucking climate change.

  It’s all Greek to me, says Charleston.

  We’re here for prisoner transport, says Howell.

  Charleston flicks a pile of papers onto the counter between them.

  Sign here, here, and here.

  Howell checks the entries.

  When ya comin to Baal next? asks Stockbow.

  I’ll get your passenger.

  Charleston goes back to the cell. The door is wide open and it is empty.

  He heads out to the kitchen area.

  Uncle?

  The Old Man is outside having his last cigarette. He finishes it and stubs the butt out in the red dust. He slowly gets to his feet and shuffles towards the door. He doesn’t want to go. But he knows full well that this is what the whitefullas do – they love to move people around, especially if it is off-country. Charleston grabs the only water bottle from the fridge.

  I got this, the Old Man says, and shows Charleston the frozen pie he took out of the freezer.

  Charleston smiles and nods.

  You right, he says.

  When they emerge from the cells area, Howell and Stockbow are outside by the van. Charleston looks at her through the heavy glass doors. She should be attractive – but why isn’t she? Women are certainly hard to come by out here. Charleston leads the Old Man through the doors.

  You got water? asks Charleston.

  In the front, says Howell.

  For the Old Man, reiterates Charleston, as though talking to children.

  Howell and Stockbow look at each other.

  I got this, but it’s only six hundred mil, Charleston says, and hands the bottle to the Old Man.

  Howell gets the back doors of the Mazda open. The Old Man looks in doubtfully. All four of them can feel the heat radiating out from the cell pod.

  The sooner you get in, the sooner the aircon kicks in, offers Stockbow.

  Charleston gives her a look. He’s gonna give Smithers a serve when he sees him.

  Is it working?

  Course it works. Ya gotta get in, mate. Then it comes on.

  Charleston glares at her.

  Why didn’t you put it on before to cool it down?

  Stockbow ignores Charleston and concentrates on the Old Man.

  The sooner you get in, the sooner it comes on, she repeats.

  Howell moves closer to the Old Man.

  Carn, mate, in ya get.

  The Old Man turns to Charleston. Charleston can’t meet his gaze and turns away. The Old Man gingerly climbs into the prisoner pod like he’s picking his way across sharp hot rocks. Howell quickly locks and bolts the inner and outer door.

  Thanks, mate, Howell says to Charleston, and gets in the driver’s side.

  Stockbow looks across to Charleston who is wishing the earth would swallow him up. She takes a step in.

  Call me, Steve, she says.

  OK. You’re Steve.

  C’mon, Steve.

  See ya, he says through a tight jaw.

  She turns and climbs into the Mazda van. They take off. A small article of blue rubbish is blown across the police driveway, and the van drives right over it. Charleston takes a few steps to pick the rubbish up. He bends and grabs it, only to realise that it is one of the little Australian flags made in China that would’ve been adorning a lairy ute only a few hours before on the national remembrance day. Charleston stands there for a moment holding the crumpled little blue nylon flag, watching the white van go. Warming up a bit. Good one. He turns and goes back into the police station, dropping the blue rubbish into the small plastic bin near the counter.

  In the back of the van, the Old Man already knows that he’s made a terrible mistake. He should’ve refused to get in. Should’ve appealed to Charleston. It’s too hot.

  There is no fucken aircon.

  The seats are metal benches, already too hot to sit on. There are no handles to hold onto to stand up. And Baal is nearly four hours away. He puts down the pie and the water bottle. It’s too hot. This heat is the wrong kind. All this steel.

  It’s an oven. The gudia will cook him. His nana was right. White men will steal you in the night, th
en cook you and eat you.

  He stands with his feet apart, jammed against the benches at the base.

  There is one small window up high, but he can’t see out of it. Not being able to see the country is a torture in itself. The Old Man loves to drive through the country, and when the road comes close to a songline, which it does in several places, he can look out the window and read/feel the Tjukurrpa as he goes, even singing out the story. But now there is nothing. No chance for anything but to get hotter and hotter. He bangs on the hot steel of the wall that is closest to the driving compartment. He pounds out a storm. A battle rages in his fists against the blistering steel. The sweat pours off him. He knows this exertion is wrong. But he is trapped now. His fists eventually die down to a slow song, and then silence. He listens. Nothing. Just the humming rattling roar of the old Mazda engine, dragging them relentlessly down the baking tarmac. He takes off his shirt, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. The heat seeps into him, sears its way in like slow-motion lightning. He remembers finding the sand melted into glass tubes by lightning as a child in the desert. How fragile they were. He drops his shirt to the floor. His head is buzzing like the burning road snaking away beneath the moving cell. He tries stamping his feet. There is no give in the metal floor. He sits on the bench and kicks at the inner door. It is solid and the hot metal bench scorches him through his jeans. He jumps up. He starts to sing a song low in his throat; a single phrase in his Nana’s tongue repeated over and over. Calling out to Country. He sees the water bottle and goes to bend forward to grab it. The van suddenly lurches sideways; he loses his balance and goes down hard, smashing his left eye into the edge of the metal bench. He lies on the metal floor between the facing metal benches, blood pouring from the deep cut over his left eye. The pouring blood obscures the sight in his left eye and his right vision is blurry. The song tumbles soundlessly out of his lips as his core temperature skyrockets, and his internal organs begin to collapse one by one.

  Until only the Old Man’s heart and his voiceless song throb through the crushing heat. Eventually his heart begins to slow, the compartment is filled with the stench of human flesh cooking, and the song is released.

  Stockbow doesn’t wake until one of her iPod earphones has fallen from her left ear. Howell drives. The road snakes away in front of them to the shimmering horizon.

  How long have I been asleep?

  Hours.

  Prisoner settle down?

  Stopped banging ages ago.

  Didn’t have much rhythm.

  They count different.

  Stockbow drinks from her water bottle. The engine rattles away beneath them. Howell leans forward, resting with his elbows on the steering wheel.

  You want me to drive?

  I’m not fucken stoppin.

  They drive in silence. Stockbow leans over and taps the small CCTV screen on the dash. Nothing. She puts her left earphone back in and selects a track. Jimmy Barnes: ‘Driving Wheels’. She slumps back against her closed window and stares out at the passing low scrub and red dust country. She doesn’t really go to sleep but doesn’t really stay awake. The country hypnotises her with its sameness, with its bigness, with its unknowability. Her hangover vibrates with the drums and bass on ‘Driving Wheels’. She vagues right out.

  Eventually Howell’s voice cuts in.

  You wanna ring the prison?

  Are we that close?

  Look around.

  Stockbow leans over and taps the CCTV screen. It flickers then stops, for a moment a perfect black-and-white image of the prisoner pod. The Old Man is facedown. The screen flickers again.

  We should check on him.

  I’m not stoppin.

  He’s facedown with his shirt off.

  Howell’s lips go tight and he slows the van.

  Just get him to put his shirt on and drink some fucken water!

  The van pulls over, raising a little red dust cloud on the shoulder of the highway. They are getting close to the big sheds and big yards stuffed with big machinery that is the industrial area on the outskirts of Baal. The GPL4 officers climb out. Stockbow takes the keys and Howell stretches. She gets the outer doors open. The metal is hot to touch. She can see the Old Man is shirtless and facedown. She can see the pool of blood from his bleeding face.

  We gotta get him out.

  Howell arrives at the back of the vehicle.

  We can’t open the inner door, he says.

  He’s bloody hot.

  They live in the fucken desert.

  HEY! OLD MAN! HEY!

  There is no response from the Old Man.

  He might be dead, Stockbow says quietly.

  He’s not fucken dead. They live in the desert.

  Let’s open up.

  I’m ringing Rankin.

  He pulls out his phone and dials.

  Rankin.

  Yeah, it’s me. We got a problem.

  Broken down again?

  It’s the prisoner. Passed out.

  What’s wrong?

  He’s hung-over and didn’t drink his water. Took his shirt off.

  Turn the aircon up.

  The aircon doesn’t fucken work.

  Since when?

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  Get his shirt on. Take him to prison.

  We can’t deliver him unconscious.

  Take him to the hospital. I’ll meet you there.

  The phone goes dead. Howell rings again. Nothing.

  What? Stockbow demands.

  Fucken reception.

  Wha’d she say?

  Get his shirt on, get him to drink, get him to hospital.

  He’s not gonna drink. He’s out to it.

  He’s just hung-over. Get his shirt on.

  You’re hung-over.

  So’re you. Get his shirt on.

  I’m not touching him.

  It looks like we knew he was hot and did nothing!

  How could we know?

  The aircon’s not even fucken working!

  Everyone knows that.

  Not him! Howell says, jerking an angry thumb at the prone figure.

  He fucken does now!

  Just get his shirt on.

  They open the inner door and the heat and the stench of burning flesh blasts out at them.

  Fuck, she says under her breath, and climbs in.

  The heat is overwhelming and Stockbow breaks out in an instant all-over sweat. She rolls the Old Man over and sees the burn on his guts.

  Shit.

  Howell sees it too. It is serious – a deep burn taking up half his abdomen raised up and angry red and orange, in the shape of the rising sun badge of the ADF, complete with sun rays coming out of the crown where the burning flesh of the Old Man must’ve had little folds where he fell. Neither of the GPL4 officers recognise the shape.

  Just get the shirt on him, urges Howell.

  I think he’s dead.

  He’s not dead. Get on with it.

  But the Old Man is too heavy. She gets the sleeves over each wrist.

  You pull him forward.

  Howell half climbs in and gets the Old Man around the shoulders and pulls him forward. The cut over his eye looks deep. Stockbow slides the shirt up his arms and down over his front. Howell eases the torso back down and the Old Man’s head hits the hot metal floor with a clunk. She quickly gets the buttons done back up and gets out. Howell is on the doors immediately, shooting the bolts and locking them. She stands by the road panting and sweating heavily. Howell’s shirt is so wet from sweat that he looks like someone has poured a bucket of water over him. Stockbow gathers herself, and they head for the cabin.

  Hurry up. He might die.

  He won’t die.

  He might already be dead. I couldn’t feel no pulse.

  Howell starts the engine. It coughs and splutters. He slams it into gear and they head for the hospital. All around them are massive red slag heaps baking in the sun, as though the town of Baalboorlie is ringed with the shallow graves of gia
nts.

  Faith

  (Gold Coast, Queensland)

  Izzy stands on the too-small balcony. She looks out to sea. It was clear. But now there is the odd cloud scudding in, hitching a ride on the cool sea air current. Izzy looks down the coast. South. Down there is Sydney. He’ll be there by now, reclining in one of those low beige armchairs in the lounge. He might have a barely sipped beer sitting in front of him, and an untouched small pile of nuts in a shallow white plate. He’ll see his flight come up on the board. He’ll get up and go. He’ll fly to at least one other place. And then to Kabul.

  Izzy is thinking of him. Can’t stop. He still feels all around her. She can still feel his shapes. And taste his skin. It is a merging, she decides. Of things. Of concepts as much as feelings. Feelings as much as sensations. Where concepts and feelings become the sensation. The merging. Of – looking forward to, aching for, hunger deep, bleeding into experience, the doing, the after, the regret – it is all a merging. And skin. How truly wonderful is skin? Wrapped around us. Like a skin. She wants to remember this. To burn the connection deep into her synapses. This skin draped over this other shape that is us underneath the skin. The other shape that now we can feel in each other. Can feel with the grinding. The stroking. And the other shapes below that. Way underneath the fondling. Lurking like fat goldfish in our murky moats. Down there surrounding those impossible castles. So far from here. And this heat. The shapes heat up. They shiver beneath our outer shapes and drink in the power of being awakened. Of being present here with all of us. All of us two in this bed. On this bed. Around this bed.

  The wanting. The having. The had.

  A shadow passes over her. A bird. Izzy gets the rushing feeling. It’s like someone walking over your grave, but rushing the moment – so that it takes no time at all, and the moment is lost, stolen away by the rushing. It is like déjà vu but again with the rushing – it is not something happening that has happened before and will happen again and is happening now – it is a memory instantly forgotten of a moment that never happened and can never happen again. Izzy looks up to search for the bird in the sky who made the shadow – but she sees nothing. Was it a kite? Some kind of a sea hawk? Or a crow – one for sorrow?