Sweet One

by Peter Docker

  Mister Foster? What time is it?

  Time to fucking get up. You’re booked on a flight to the Gold Coast at eleven am.

  What?

  Are you deaf as well as drunk?

  I’m not drunk, Mister Foster.

  You make that fucken flight.

  What am I doing on the Gold Coast?

  Furphy’s dead.

  Big Bill?

  He’s an ex-parrot.

  There is a silence. She hears Foster’s laboured breathing.

  Mister Foster, do you care about miners paying for sex with young Aboriginal girls? And loan sharks holding them to sexual ransom?

  How young?

  Young. Maybe underage.

  You got pictures? The girls hot looking?

  No pictures.

  Not like you, Izzy. Get pictures, and I might be interested. I’ll hear from you in Queensland.

  The phone goes dead.

  Izzy takes a big breath. Big Bill is dead? What the hell is that? You would have to run him over with a bulldozer to kill him. Careful what you ask for, that’s all Izzy can think.

  Izzy stumbles around in her little brown room, throwing everything into her carry-on bag. Her mind runs over the little brown girl in the little brown room two doors down. She leaves the cigarette burn in the brown bedspread. Doesn’t even try to hide it. She wishes she could get up the courage to take a dump on the bed, leave a big steaming turd for Tom the loan shark pimp motel owner. Another time, maybe.

  She opens the door and falls outside, blinking into the morning desert light. The car park is empty now, apart from Charlie’s Nissan Patrol. Charlie sits on the back of his Patrol, drinking from a thermos cup.

  Oh dear, Izzy from the Star. You had a bit of Somerset night?

  I gotta get back to Baal. Got a flight to catch.

  Have you been crying?

  I wish, Charlie, I bloody wish.

  Izzy jumps into the cabin of the Patrol, and without another word, Charlie roars out of the motel car park. In a minute or so, they are crossing Skull Creek. Izzy’s wine-soaked mind scavenges through the debris of her thoughts, looking for survivors.

  She talked about this in the Gold Coast hotel room with Josh. Talked about how she’s gotta resolve it. How she can’t move on. Josh said either confront Foster, or go and look for another job. Josh said grow up – it’s not like the paper ever professed to be on about the truth. Josh said next time, write it in such a way that Foster can’t change it. But Josh never sat through the court hearings, the coroner’s reports, and never sat in the bar with all those cops after Big Bill was acquitted, listening to all their shit. Josh never went to Psalm Island and met the family of the boy who died in custody. Izzy knew that Big Bill killed that poor kid. Killed him for nothing. Over an insult. Maybe he didn’t mean to kill him. He sure as hell meant to hurt him beyond hurt. Knew it in her bones. She wrote about it in her series of articles. And Foster just changed it all.

  Ya can’t say that about a police officer, girlie! Not in my fucking paper!

  Foster changed it all and left her by-line. Then she got the award. And all those thank you emails from the Queensland Police Union. Macca would’ve started that. Maybe Macca believed she wrote the story that way to protect Big Bill, because he was Macca’s mate. That’s what Macca would have done. Maybe Macca was disappointed in her. Snowy Langford never took a backward step when it came to rotten coppers. Did Macca feel for Big Bill because his experience as a copper made him rotten? Maybe Macca spoke to Foster and knows the truth. Maybe he made Foster do it. Izzy doesn’t want to raise it with Macca. She doesn’t want to hurt him. Macca is all she’s got. Her father’s best mate from Vietnam. It was Macca who got the police to trust her and open up in the first place.

  Speak to her, Bill. It’s Snowy Langford’s daughter.

  Not that it mattered. Foster changed it all.

  On the highway they retrace the route of the prison van in silence. Izzy is thinking about Big Bill. At one point she almost falls asleep – but sees the dream of the burning dog coming down the highway towards her, so she forces herself to stay awake. She looks out at the endless shimmering red wasteland, knowing that Josh is looking out over something similar. Can’t dwell on that, Macca always says.

  And then Charlie is dropping her at the airport in Baal. For a moment she thinks he has brought her to the wrong place – this is just a little dusty shed next to a treeless grassless paddock. There is not a soul around. She swipes her Diners card to pay him, and signs the form without even looking at the amount. Foster can whistle Dixie for his budget summaries.

  See ya soon, Izzy from the Star.

  Gracias, Charlie Muchacho.

  The airport is deserted until right before the plane arrives, when all the big blokes in hi-vis gear turn up, and swarm aboard the small jet as the other passengers come off. Izzy almost bumps into a fit-looking Aboriginal bloke in orange hi-vis and a Jack Daniel’s cap who walks quickly without hurrying, and has his head angled slightly away from her.

  Then she’s on the plane. She takes out her notepad and scribbles some ideas. She turns it over and over in her mind. She checks her digital voice recorder. She checks her camera. It seems impossible. Big Bill was larger than life. A man better suited to another time. Why is she thinking murder? There is something else gurgling around in her stomach with the last of the red wine from last night – she is glad. Big Bill revolted her. Maybe even frightened her. Izzy pushes this away, repulsed by her own inner workings.

  By the time she arrives at the scene it looks like the entire Queensland Police Service is there. The whole street is cordoned off with crime-scene tape. Grim-faced officers bristling with weapons and bad attitudes are keeping the TV crews in a small area. Izzy can feel the police anger swarming up and down the street like a colony of wasps. Izzy gets out of her cab clutching her airport coffee and goes straight up to a senior sergeant who is talking into a two-way radio. He glares at her.

  No press.

  Detective McIntyre is expecting me. Langford. The Star.

  Wait here with the rest of the scabs.

  Izzy pulls out her BlackBerry and dials Macca.

  McIntyre.

  It’s Izzy. I’m at the top of the street.

  She hangs up. The senior sergeant’s radio squawks.

  McIntyre here. Let Langford in.

  Sir.

  The cop turns to her and gives her what he imagines is a conciliatory look.

  Sorry Miss Langford. Orders.

  It’s Ms.

  Sorry.

  He lifts the crime-scene tape and she goes under. The other four or five cops all watch her manoeuvre under the tape, before the indignant shouting from the rest of the media pack forces them to turn and shout back.

  Who said life was fair?

  Izzy goes up the pebblecrete path and is met by Macca coming out.

  The front door is propped open, and she can see pools of blood with drag marks through them, and beyond that, the mountain of a man lying facedown. Detective McIntyre looks like shit. His suit looks like he slept in it. His skin is blotchy and sweaty in the Gold Coast sunshine. Two forensic officers in white overalls push past them.

  Detective McIntyre.

  Izzy.

  They both shift on their feet. Izzy takes off her sunnies. McIntyre sees her bruise.

  What happened to your eye?

  You should see the other guy.

  She attempts a smile, which doesn’t really work.

  You look worse than me, Izzy. Wild West hard work?

  Did you ring Foster?

  McIntyre nods. Izzy half turns to look into the doorway. It feels rude to face the scene straight on. She momentarily looks at the large body lying in the blood, what in police circles is known as a target glance. Macca misses it. She slips her BlackBerry out of her pocket and clicks on camera without looking down.

  What’ve we got?

  Cowardly attack. Three, maybe four men...

  McIntyre noti
ces the phone in her hand.

  You right?

  Sorry, text.

  Izzy hits a button and pops the BlackBerry back into her pocket without taking her eyes off Macca.

  Why do you say that?

  You knew Bill. One man couldn’t do it.

  Unless he had a bulldozer?

  There is a weapon left at the scene, a...

  Macca breaks off as two other men in suits are backing out of the door. They turn and see Macca talking to Izzy. They both have crew cuts, and have a totally different energy to Macca, like they are surrounded by some kind of glow. The silver-haired man takes a pace towards them. There is an indefinable menace in the way he strides forward; Izzy has to fight herself not to step back.

  Who’s this?

  Langford. The Star, she says.

  Well, you can fuck off, says Silver Hair, and his blue eyes bore into her.

  She was our only friend after Psalm Island, says Macca.

  Silver Hair’s eyes flick to McIntyre, and then back to her. She winces at Macca’s character reference.

  I don’t need any fucken friends, says Silver Hair.

  The other man, slightly shorter and four axehandles across the shoulders in his dark suit, is staring into the garden. He squats right next to the place where the killer stood in his socks.

  He stood here for a long time, Four Axehandles says.

  Silver Hair looks over.

  What about the others? asks Macca.

  What others?

  Macca looks back to Izzy. She sees something cross his bloodshot eyes, something like a wallaby jumping out onto the highway in front of an oncoming twenty-tonne truck. Silver Hair looks back to Izzy.

  I thought I told you to fuck off, he says.

  Who are you, again? asks Izzy.

  Four Axehandles stands up. In that fluid movement, Izzy can feel his power. These blokes are fit. Really fit. And they get their shoes at the same shop.

  You don’t want to get on his wrong side, comments Four Axehandles.

  Izzy smiles at them.

  You can’t do good-cop, bad-cop on me: I’m on your side.

  What side is that, girlie?

  Izzy looks to Macca. He is silent. Maybe he is in shock. He and Big Bill were mates. The two suits turn and go back inside Big Bill’s place.

  I’ll walk you out, says Macca taking her by the elbow and steering her towards the gate.

  Who are those guys?

  Feds.

  They don’t seem like Feds.

  I dunno. I got called by the Commissioner himself. He was ropeable. Said it came from over his head. Told me we have to cooperate. Wankers. Wouldn’t even tell me their names. Fucken arseholes.

  You all right, Macca?

  They head back up the street. Macca drops his voice.

  I was here last night. Me and Olly.

  What time did you leave?

  Two – two thirty.

  Have a couple?

  Whaddya reckon?

  He seem worried?

  You know Bill. Never worried about nothin.

  They shoot him?

  Bashed him to death...

  Fuck.

  With his own baton, his liver just about smashed out of his guts...

  Déjà vu.

  What?

  How’d they get the baton?

  I’m sposed to be the detective, Izzy.

  Izzy goes to answer him, but finds herself choking up. Macca puts his hand on her arm.

  You all right, Izzy?

  Josh says he doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.

  You Skyped him?

  Mmm – mn.

  You’re a writer – write him a letter.

  Izzy looks at the ground.

  Do you love him, Izzy?

  She looks up.

  He brought up Teddy and Phil.

  When?

  In the Skype.

  At the beginning, or the end?

  End.

  Macca nods, and purses his lips.

  How many times has he been over?

  There? I dunno. Four, or five.

  So write to him. Tell him you’ll love him forever. No matter what. Send him a photo. Send him a wife photo. Not a girlfriend photo.

  What’s the diff?

  Keep your top on, says Macca with a grin.

  Izzy smiles.

  Maybe I’ll take my top off, she says.

  Suit yourself, says Macca. Where are you going?

  Back to Baal.

  The Wild West?

  Something is rotten in the State of Digmark.

  Don’t fall down a hole, Izzy.

  She gives him a smile. They reach the police line.

  Why did you call Foster?

  Macca looks back down the street and goes to step off.

  Because of the Feds?

  Macca opens his mouth like he’s going to answer, and then at the last possible moment – doesn’t.

  Give me a call, Macca.

  Yeah.

  She touches him on the arm.

  I’m sorry, Macca, she lies.

  Macca shrugs, and turns to go back. Izzy ducks under the police crime-scene tape, and goes past the vultures with their cameras and bad make-up. She reaches into her top pocket and clicks off her voice recorder. She knows she got a good shot of Big Bill lying in a pool of his own blood. Foster will be creaming himself. This is front page. Two in a row.

  Old Testament Zone

  Izzy sits on the plane. She stares at the SEATBELT light waiting for the sound and the voice over the speakers to release her. It takes forever. She feels like Cathy on the starting blocks for the 400m, closing out the crowd, staring blankly down her lane. It finally goes off. She stands, and takes her laptop from her overnight bag in the overhead locker. She plugs in her BlackBerry and brings up the photo on the screen. She quickly gets it into position, and starts to add text.

  PAYBACK.

  She deletes it.

  AS YE SOW...

  Ye? She deletes it. A flight attendant glides past her, heading for the front of the plane. She decides to jump in and let the headline jump out later. This time it’s got to get past Foster. He’s got to see how good the other angle is for selling papers. It’s got to be undeniable. She is already in the zone. And it’s the Old Testament kind of zone. With the Old Testament kind of God. She types without thinking, and it pours out of her.

  She finishes, drinks two gin and tonics, and falls asleep.

  She changes planes in Perth like a seasoned fly-in fly-outer, hardly even looking up at the boards, pausing only to send off her article, and just following her feet.

  And then she is back at the tin shed in Baal. With its space, and emptiness. Jet travel is truly magic. The different places you can be in, in the space of one day, are beyond our ability to make sense of it, she is thinking. Just ask Josh. Izzy checks her phone for the time. The bewitching hour. Again. She peers out into the sparsely lit Baal airfield, as if expecting to see a cohort of witches coming in to land. Must be tired. She takes out the card that Charlie gave her, and dials the number.

  Izzy from the Star!

  Charlie. I’m at the airport.

  So am I, my dear. Step outside.

  Izzy walks out the front to see Charlie ejecting two young blokes from his cab.

  I don’t give a shit! yells Charlie. I’m not ya fucking mother! Piss off!

  She pushes past the two young blokes in yellow-striped WMC jackets standing by the cab.

  Sorry, boys.

  We’ll share, says the young bloke with straggly blonde hair.

  No, thanks.

  Hey – you workin? asks the other young bloke with dark stubble on his chin.

  Izzy gets into the cab.

  How much?

  Do you take it up the arse?

  You couldn’t afford me. Ask your kindergarten teacher.

  The cab drives off.

  Palace Hotel, Charlie my good man.

  Just couldn’t stay away, could ya?
r />   I missed you, Charlie Muchacho.

  Izzy looks out at the wide empty streets of Baal.

  I half expect to see Wyatt Earp, says Izzy.

  Wyatt Earp wouldn’t have lasted a New York minute out here, says Charlie.

  They pull into the main drag, and Charlie does a U-ie at the lights, and pulls up out the front of the Palace Hotel.

  What time tomorrow, Izzy?

  They got a gym in this one-horse town, Charlie?

  Rec centre.

  What time do they open?

  Five forty-five.

  Well, you can pick me up at five thirty. I’ve got to stay fit now.

  Course you do.

  He swipes her card. Charlie smiles.

  Done.

  Izzy heads into the Palace. She checks in, and is given a room at the front, overlooking the street, virtually over the main entrance. She unpacks her carry-on bag completely, and rechecks all her gear. She puts her camera and voice recorder on charge, and plugs in her laptop. She sorts her few clothes into neatly stacked categories, and places her gym gear ready to go. She carries her toiletries bag into the small bathroom, undresses, and climbs into the shower. She turns the water up as hot as she can handle it, and showers until she doesn’t think she can stand up any longer. When she gets out, the bathroom is steamed up, and so is half the hotel room. She dries her hair as best she can, and wraps another towel around herself. She sits at the little wooden desk, takes up the Palace Hotel stationery, and writes the letter.

  Dear Josh.

  She imagines that he is here with her, lying on the bed behind her. She finishes the letter in one passing. She places the camera on the bed, right where his face would be, and checks the screen on the back. She adjusts the image, propping the camera with the edge of a pillow, sets the timer, and goes back to the chair. She sits on the side of the chair, with her back to the camera, and lets the towel fall. She imagines the camera wind-up sound is Josh calling to her, and turns her face to the camera, all offered-up smile and joy. The flash goes off. She smiles to herself at her own foolishness, and crosses to look at the shot. Not quite a girlfriend shot – and not quite a wife shot. Top off, but back to the camera – the best of both worlds. She puts the photo onto a disk, climbs into bed, puts her camera back on charge, and falls straight to sleep. A sexy wife shot, with the bare back, and the tiniest hint of the promise of a curve of a breast.