by Peter Docker
Better Colour
Baalboorlie. Night. A crew-cutted white man sits in a late model Ford parked on the wide, dimly lit street. He has a Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol in his lap. He stares out of his open window across the road at a two-storey block of units. The paint is peeling off the building and the gutters are badly rusted. There is a light on in the flat top left as he looks at it. It’s late. Finally the light is switched off. Only the flickering blue-grey of the TV screen can still be seen. The man in the Ford sighs and sits back. He picks up a protein bar from the passenger seat, rips open the plastic and starts to eat. The night is cooling down fast. He chews. A compact two-way radio resting in the centre console squelches.
Golf Alpha One, this is Two.
He grabs the radio.
One.
Two. All quiet?
All quiet on the Western Front.
Roger that.
Golf Alpha One bites into his protein bar. From down the street behind him he hears shouting, and his eyes flick to the rear-view mirror like a machine gun swinging onto a target. Coming up the middle of the road is a mob of blackfullas. They’re carrying red and white cans of Emu Export, and are embroiled in a boisterous argument in desert language. Men and women of all ages. One man carries the remainder of the block of beer on his shoulder and smokes. The main protagonist in the dispute is an older woman. She shouts at the men, and gesticulates with her can of beer. The men are trying to howl her down but she will not be denied. The argument is going at top speed, which is at odds with their relaxed ambling gate. As the older people at the front draw level with the Ford, they see the crew-cutted white man sitting there, and everyone falls silent.
A younger man with a wild Afro staggers over to the open window of the car, putting his hands on the door to stop himself from falling over.
Eh? P’liceman! You gotta smoke?
The alcohol fumes from his breath flare the nostrils of the white man sitting in the car.
I’m not a cop! Get out of it! Go on – piss off!
Gimme a fucken smoke, p’liceman!
Before the white man in the car can respond, another fulla breaks off from the group of ambling drunks.
Eh, you black bastard, get off that car!
The man at the car window spins on his heels as quick as a flash.
Who you calling black?
You – black hole!
I got better colour than you!
Black liver! That’s all you got!
Better than a black arse!
And the two black men start punching into each other, right there on the road next to the parked car. The rest of the group of drunks erupt with barracking for one pugilist or the other.
Golf Alpha One in the Ford is unsure. He looks up to the window of the flat. The TV light still flickers. There is no other movement. He doesn’t want to get involved. He could drive off, do a lap, and come back when the drunks have punched themselves out. That would involve leaving his post. He could jump out, and drop both of them. But then he would either have to deal with them when they woke up, or dispose of two bodies. And all these witnesses. These options are flicking around in his head, when the man asking for a smoke gets the other one by the throat and gives him a terrific blow to the face. He staggers back against the car at speed. Golf Alpha One goes to put his hand up in case the drunk actually falls into the car, when the black man spins and drives a small blade into his jugular.
Golf Alpha One finds himself face-to-face with the man he is waiting for. The blade is buried deep in his neck, his life-blood is pumping out, and he knows he’s been had. His boss’s words from the briefing ring in his ears like the echo of a rifle shot down a long narrow valley: Give this target the utmost respect.
In Iraq he would’ve shot everyone in the street as soon as they appeared. Just in case. In the narrow valley in Afghanistan he would’ve called in someone else to shoot them all. He wishes that all those who questioned the wisdom of that ruthlessness were here with him now. Dying with him. Golf Alpha One’s hand drops to the Browning but the blade is out of his throat and into his heart. The blood is gushing like a sprinkler as the killer grabs the Browning from the dead man. He puts the weapon in his belt, and moves to the passenger side. He opens the door and drags the body across into the passenger seat. He pats the blood-soaked body down. No ID. Three spare mags. A wad of cash. He takes the cash and the spare ammo and gets behind the wheel. He feels the warm blood soaking into his jeans and the back of his big jacket. He looks up. The street is empty.
The drinking arguing desert mob is nowhere to be seen. Ghosts who disappeared into the ether. He starts the car and cuts across the road and into the car park at the front of the units. There are a couple of bashed up 4WDs parked there, and a ute sitting up on blocks. He jumps out of the Ford and goes up the steps and along to the door of the flat on the far left. He knocks quietly. Nothing. He knocks again.
Who is it?
Mate, it’s me.
Who?
Carn mate, let’s in.
Howell opens the door and is hit so hard in the solar plexus that he drops to his knees. His knees hit the lino with a dull thud, and he gasps for breath. The man steps past him, pulls the gaffer tape from the small roll in his front pocket, and puts a strip of gaffer across Howell’s mouth. He wrenches Howell’s arms behind his back and secures them with plastic ties. Howell’s breath whistles in and out of his nose like a steam train. Howell is yanked to his feet, and shoved along the balcony and down the stairs. He falls on the first landing and is jerked up to standing again through the grip on his hands secured behind his back. The man pushes him down the last flight and pops the boot of the Ford. Howell’s eyes go wide as he is pushed along the car length, past the blood-drenched and well-dead Golf Alpha One. When he gets to the boot, his feet try to take off in a different direction, the panic rising in him. His captor holds him easily, and then bundles him into the trunk, and two more plastic ties are applied to his ankles. The boot is shut. He lies there in the dark, a grotesque insect dragged down by a trapdoor spider, the only sound the stale boot air screeching in and out of his nostrils. The car starts up and drives off.
Golf Alpha Two stares down the deserted street. He’s parked up on the verge under a tall but spindly gum tree. There’s only one streetlight still working. Local kids with their slingshots have taken all the others out. A pair of white running shoes dangles from the powerlines right outside Stockbow’s house. There are three vehicles out the front, parked on what used to be the front lawn, but is now bare red dirt. Her housemates are all home. Their lights are off. All gone to bed. Golf Alpha Two looks at his watch. 1:17am.
Then around the corner comes a car with no lights on, weaving all over the road like a madwoman’s piss. Some drunk driving home. Arsehole.
The car accelerates. Oh, shit! That’s One’s car. He grabs his radio.
Mistake number one.
One, this is Two...
Nothing.
One, this is Two...
He drops his radio and hits the ignition. Mistake number two. The other car is accelerating straight for him. He slams his car into reverse, floors it, and is grabbing for his MP5 when the other Ford ploughs into him. The impact throws him sideways, his head smashing into the door, and the submachine gun jarring from his grip. He is leaning down to grab the weapon from the floor when a man jumps from the other car and and shoots him twice in the upper body. The shooter leans in and grabs the MP5. He jumps back into his car and reverses down the street, across the road and into Stockbow’s driveway. Now there are dogs barking and lights coming on in houses all down the street. He runs to the front door.
He hears a man’s voice just inside. He steps to the side of the door.
I dunno what the fuck! I’ll have a look, says a male voice inside.
The housemate opens the front door, steps out, is struck on the back of the neck and goes down hard. A big dog right behind him lunges for his attacker and has its throat ripped out by
the small razor-sharp blade. Stockbow is right there in her pyjamas, her hair in a tangle hanging across her face.
Who the fuck are you?
He joint-kicks her to the knee and she drops to the floor, screaming in agony. He rolls her over, and with a knee in her back, tapes her mouth and secures her wrists with plastic ties. A woman’s voice calls from another room.
You all right, Tina?
Stay there, or you’re dead!
He gets Stockbow to her feet, drags her out the front door, with other dogs going crazy around them, throws her into the boot with Howell, and takes off. The battered Ford howls away into the night. He checks the dash clock. 1:18am. Barely a minute has passed.
Too Hot
The alarm goes off. Izzy opens her eyes, rips back the covers, and climbs out of bed. She dresses quickly in her gym gear, with the vague memory of a helicopter dream buzzing around her head. She pops open her laptop and goes to the paper website. They’ve taken the picture down, but the story has gone crazy. Izzy logs off. She can’t quite get that dream back. Just the memory of the Apache pilot turning to look at her. As the eyes behind the helmet shield swing onto her, she feels the barrels of the chain gun rotate onto her as the target. She feels a deep coldness in her lower belly. She banishes the memory, and a minute later is standing on the street out in front of the Palace Hotel. She can hear the engines grinding away from the pits to the north and east of the town, floating down across the wide streets like morning mist. There are trucks and 4WDs already moving in the desert morning. This town never sleeps. Never stops working. She puts her camera, BlackBerry, and voice recorder into her little bag with her gym towel. She sees Charlie do a U-turn in his cab, and slide into the kerb right in front of her. She jumps into the front.
Morning, Charlie Muchacho.
Morning, Izzy from the Star.
Charlie takes off, heading straight down towards the satellite township of Big Rock.
You sleep well, Izzy?
I dreamt of helicopters.
That might not have been a dream.
What?
Ahead of them, as they approach the Gatacre Drive intersection, they see the police cars. There are a number of heavily armed officers at the roadblock, and one old white troop carrier, that is clearly bailed up. Every door to the vehicle is wide open, the bonnet is up, and there is a pile of stuff by the side of the road. Izzy pulls out her camera.
Slow down, she says quietly.
Charlie eases off the gas, and Izzy snaps a couple of quick overview shots. As they get closer to the police roadblock, they can see about eight Aboriginal people lying facedown by the side of the road, being covered by several officers with shotguns.
What are they doing? Izzy asks, more of herself, than of Charlie.
Profiling. Means they’ve got nothing, says Charlie.
The cab pulls up in front of two policemen with assault rifles. Another cop comes over to Charlie. Izzy holds her camera down.
ID?
Charlie leans over the glove compartment, and grabs out his papers.
Scuse me, Izzy.
Charlie hands his papers out to the cop, who looks them over.
What’s going on, officer? asks Izzy.
It’s a roadblock, says the cop.
Izzy rolls her eyes at Charlie.
Where’s your ID?
Izzy pulls out her licence from her purse in her bag and hands it up. The cop goes over to his squad car and picks up the police radio. Izzy takes two shots of the policemen pointing rifles at them. Then she gets a shot of the Aboriginal people facedown by the side of the road, with the barrels of the police shotguns just in the top of the frame. The cop with the IDs comes back over. Two mining 4WDs, covered in mud, pull up behind the cab at the roadblock.
No photographs, says the cop.
I’m a journo.
I don’t care if you’re Cecil Beaton.
What’s going on? asks Charlie.
Escaped convicts, says the cop. Armed and dangerous.
The cop hands back their papers. He makes a big show of looking in the back of the Ford station wagon.
Where are you going?
To the gym.
Rec centre, confirms Charlie.
The cop nods, steps back, and waves them through. Charlie drives off.
He was lying, says Izzy. There are no escaped convicts.
What can I say? says Charlie. It’s the Wild West.
I went to sleep in Baalboorlie and woke up in Kabul, says Izzy.
Charlie swings around the ring road, and pulls up right in front of the rec centre. Izzy pays him, and jumps out.
Call ya later, Charlie.
The rec centre looks brand new, and out the front there are big signs lauding the mining companies who put money in. Half of Baal is so new that it sparkles in the setting sun – and the other half looks like it is crumbling into the dust and won’t be there in the morning. Even from here, she can look past the edge of town to see the massive piles of dirt everywhere. Izzy always imagined mining to be an ordered, clinical activity – but coming into land in Baal it looked as if the earth is being attacked by giant creatures with shovels the size of footy ovals, who have been hitting the ice pipe pretty hard.
There is a small group of ladies in leotards waiting at the front door. Izzy walks up to stand behind this lycra assembly. The ladies are talking about the police.
...There are extra officers flying in from Perth.
...They’ve been arriving all night.
Izzy looks back to see a young guy in a tracksuit with a rec centre polo shirt on hurrying up to the front entrance from the car park. He gets out his big set of keys as he arrives at the big double glass doors.
Sorry, ladies. I got held up at the roadblocks.
The skinny brunette with botox near Izzy gives him a foul look and then looks away. The group continue their chatter.
Someone must’ve escaped from prison.
Someone dangerous.
I heard all the blacks are leaving town.
Good riddance.
Bad omens, they reckon.
Oogadee boogadee.
The rec centre lad gets the doors open and crosses straight to the security pad to key in the code. There is a thirty-second delay. But there are no lights showing on the keypad. No greens. No reds. Izzy clocks his body language. She pushes past the gym class women, and goes over to him.
What is it? asks Izzy.
The alarm’s turned off. I locked-up myself last night. I know it was on.
Izzy turns and looks into the cavernous rec centre complex. There’s something else. The smell. The smell filling the place is like someone is barbequing rotten meat. The women in leotards with jumpers tied around their waists are all holding their noses and looking around in confusion. The rec centre lad takes out his phone.
What are you doing? asks Izzy.
I’m calling the police. Fuck this.
Izzy pulls her camera, and starts to head into the complex. The smell is overwhelming.
Where are you going? calls the rec centre guy.
Izzy ignores him. Every cell in her body is tingling.
Hey! It’s not safe! There are escaped crims! yells the guy, before he starts talking into his phone.
Izzy continues on, slinging her gym bag, and holding her camera out in front of her body as if it were a weapon. Pool is empty. Gym doors are still locked. The power of the smell is increasing the further into the complex Izzy gets. And she can hear bubbling, and the sound of a pump. She wanders past the pool into the wet area. The spa is going. That is the bubbling, and the pump sound.
Hey! Hey! The cops said to wait outside! yells the rec centre guy.
Then Izzy sees the crowbar jammed through the door handles of the sauna. The moment she see that, she knows. Knows but doesn’t know, this is the feeling right before the story flows. Flows like an underground river. The sauna and the spa are on the same power system. And now the smell is like heavy wind that she is walking
into. She walks through, drawn like a fly to a sticky-board. The red light of the sauna shows on FULL. Izzy steps up to the little window. The rec centre bloke suddenly appears next to her.
The cops said to stay outside!
You stay outside!
They can both feel the heat radiating through the wooden doors. The rec centre guy grabs Izzy by the arm.
I’m not asking you again!
Izzy pushes him against the outside of the sauna, and he reels back from the burning surface. The rotting burning smell beats down on them both like a jackhammer.
What the fuck! You fucken bitch!
You can do what you want. I’m getting a photo.
He looks in and sees two bodies lying on the floor, a man and a woman. They are bloated and discoloured. There is an empty six hundred mil water bottle and a pie still in its synthetic warming bag sitting on the bench. He throws up violently, hurling white vomit across the window and door. The door is so hot that the white vomit bubbles like a cappuccino. He turns, and runs for the exit. Izzy quickly takes out her gym towel, and wipes the vomit down, so that she can see through the little window on the door. She gets shot after shot, the stink of that cooking from hell filling her nostrils and seeping into the pores of her skin – before she hears the police cars pulling up out the front. She puts her camera away, and heads for the front door.
Outside, a helicopter is landing in the car park.
She gets to the cafe area before two hooded policemen run at her with shotguns aimed.
Police! Don’t move! Police! Don’t move!
Izzy stands still, and puts her hands up.
Get down! Down on the ground! Facedown! Move!
Izzy lies facedown on the red tiled floor. A whole brace of coppers run past her. She lies there, her pulse racing. Not from the cops. From the story. Big Bill, now this. The memory of those bloated corpses floats around her like a thought bubble from some hellish barbeque. She hears the cops shouting to each other as they go through the complex, and eventually get to the sauna. She looks up to see two pairs of shiny shoes walk up to her. She knows those shoes.