Sweet One

by Peter Docker

  Get her outside, someone above her says, and strong hands grab her, pull her to her feet, and guide her outside.

  The gym ladies are now back in the car park. There are any number of police vehicles arriving. Izzy is told to sit on the front step by a policeman. She tries to look back inside to see the owners of those shoes, but she can’t see anything.

  Name?

  My name’s Izzy Langford.

  The copper writes something down. She looks across to see the rec centre guy talking to another officer.

  I’m from the Star newspaper in Melbourne.

  Never heard of it.

  It is the biggest selling paper in the country.

  Not this part of the country.

  Can I speak to the officer in charge?

  No.

  Is there someone else I can talk to?

  The TRG officer looks around. Izzy keeps on. Not called The Press for nothing, Foster always says.

  What’s your name?

  The TRG officer gets a little sneer on his face.

  Sherlock Holmes, he says.

  Well, Sergeant Holmes, I wonder if you would care to make a statement?

  I don’t care to, no.

  Thank you for your help, Inspector Holmes.

  She turns to look at the building again. Around the corner comes a cop in regular blue uniform.

  Miss Langford?

  It’s Ms.

  I’ll have to ask you to leave, Miss.

  And right then, the front doors to the Baalboorlie rec centre open and out step Silver Hair and Four Axehandles, the Feds from Queensland. Izzy doesn’t miss a beat.

  Ah, gentlemen – how lovely to see you again.

  I thought I told you to fuck off.

  I’m sorry – I’ve forgotten your name? Izzy Langford...

  Izzy puts out her hand. They stop in front of her. It’s a start. The uniform copper hangs back, not sure of his place.

  You think you helped us with your ‘payback’ story? says Silver Hair.

  Those blue eyes of Silver Hair fix on her like a heat-seeking missile.

  Four Axehandles weighs in.

  Why use that photo? Where’s your respect?

  The photo was taken off the website.

  Eventually, says Silver Hair, taking a step towards her.

  Izzy stands her ground.

  Who said I’m here to help you? she asks.

  You said you were on our side?

  And what side is that, again?

  Why are you here, Izzy?

  I’m here for the truth.

  The two men in suits stare at her as if she were an exotic insect in a jar, and in another jar behind their backs – they have a massive scorpion.

  Izzy takes a breath.

  What are you doing here? asks Silver Hair.

  Ah, says Izzy. Isn’t the real question – how did I get here so quickly?

  You must’ve been already here, says Four Axehandles.

  Same as you, says Izzy with a smile.

  What are you doing here? repeats Silver Hair.

  I’m investigating the link between these deaths and Sergeant Bill Furphy, she says.

  No you’re not.

  What are you doing here? she presses.

  The two crew-cuts continue on their way to their unmarked car.

  I’m going to write about it anyway, she calls after them.

  Four Axehandles turns and looks at her as he is climbing into the car.

  We’ll see, he says.

  The car drives off with a screech of tyres.

  Come on, Miss, says the Constable, taking her by the arm.

  She shakes off his grip.

  It’s Ms.

  Izzy gets out near the road and sits on a park bench there. The constant buzzing of the growing police presence is giving her a headache. She takes out a menthol cigarette and lights up. She takes out Charlie’s card. She dials.

  Izzy smokes. She gets up and paces back and forth. Her hands gradually stop shaking. What is it about those crew-cutted bastards in suits? She looks up from her pacing to see a young Aboriginal couple coming up the concrete walkway towards her. He is riding a BMX bike with a flat front tyre. She is wheeling a clapped-out pusher with a sleeping child in it. They wear the baggy clothing favoured by African-American rappers. They look about fifteen.

  Excuse me, Missus. You got a smoke please?

  You’re too young to be smoking, says Izzy.

  So are you.

  She looks at the young fulla. He grins and looks at the ground. She takes out her packet and offers it to them. They both take two.

  What’s happening at the rec? asks the young fulla.

  Two dead bodies in the sauna, says Izzy.

  She holds out her lighter, and they lean in to light their fags. They step back. Exhale. He pushes his hood back. His eyes flash to the police activity at the rec centre. He looks at the ground. Izzy’s eyes flick to the rec centre and the cops, following his eye movement, and then just as quickly she looks back to her shoes.

  Ya wouldn’t get me in one of those things, he says.

  What things? asks Izzy.

  Sauna, the young mother says.

  They laugh.

  Too hot!

  They laugh again.

  They all smoke in silence. Izzy’s hands are shaking. Foster was right, the arsehole. This is big. This is hot. Izzy smiles at her own bad internal pun. The black kids laughing at too hot in the sauna seem to give her permission. The young kids look at her secret smile. She wishes she could share the joke. They’d get it. It would just take a very long set-up.

  It’s Ms.

  What?

  I’m not married.

  Ah, poor-fulla, the lad quips.

  They both give her a smile, neither of them quite meeting her eyes, and walk on, talking in their own language.

  Invaded

  Charlie pulls away from the police-infested rec centre.

  You all right, Izzy? You look pale.

  I am pale.

  Paler.

  I need a coffee.

  They drive. Izzy is thinking about information flow. The Aboriginal smoke-botters joked about the sauna. Do white people do so many crazy things that nothing is a surprise? After she told them about the bodies in the sauna, they didn’t seem surprised. Did they already know?

  You been to the airport this morning?

  Yep.

  Any private jets parked up?

  Two Learjets, two C-one-thirties, and two Black Hawks.

  You’re kidding?

  We’re being invaded.

  Can we go for a look?

  Why not?

  In a few minutes, Charlie is pulling up out the front of the airport. Now there is no feeling of the tin shed masquerading as a real airport. Now the airport would do justice to dozens of airports across Africa and the Middle East. There are police with guns everywhere. Izzy gets out. She is still in her gym gear as she wanders through the terminal and several pairs of eyes and a few barrels follow her progress.

  Izzy gets out her camera and snaps off some photos of the two C-130 military planes on the tarmac. With the sun just risen in the background, the shots look like she is back embedded with the RAAF, on assignment in Afghanistan. All it needs is the mortar and gun emplacements surrounded by sandbags and peopled with weary diggers. But the war she is covering now hasn’t used artillery pieces in a hundred years.

  There are police officers everywhere, grim-faced in black overalls, holding submachine guns. None of them look like they are up for a conversation. Izzy was in London just after the bombing and it had this feeling, tense and nervous, infecting everyone with quiet desperation. But not as hot. Nowhere near it.

  She jumps back into the cab. A police officer near the entrance writes down their rego as they drive past.

  Where to now?

  I’ve got to print out a photo, and post a letter.

  To Afghanistan?

  Yep.

  Girlfriend photo, or wife?<
br />
  What’s the diff? asks Izzy.

  He can show his mates a wife photo.

  Wife, but with a girlfriend edge.

  Charlie drives.

  He told me not to wait for him.

  Ah.

  What does that ‘ah’ mean?

  This too shall pass.

  Are you a Buddhist, Charlie?

  I’m not into any ‘isms’ or ‘ists’.

  Dead Story

  Izzy gets her laptop hooked up to the wi-fi in her room and steps out onto the balcony. She lights up a menthol. Below her, Hannan Street is all 4WDs and utes. There are two plain-clothes cops sitting in a car across the street. She takes out her BlackBerry and dials Macca.

  You’ve got a bloody nerve.

  Come on, Macca. I wrote what everyone is thinking.

  You used me to get that photo.

  You called me, Macca. Invited me up there.

  Fuck, Izzy.

  Foster took it off the site.

  Only after about a million hits.

  You used me to get Bill’s story out in the first place.

  This time you made it sound like Bill killed that kid.

  We all know Bill killed that kid.

  Silence.

  What do you want, Izzy?

  Big Bill ever come to WA?

  WA?

  Baalboorlie. The Wild West. I’m here now.

  No. He never went to Baal. Not to my knowledge.

  Silence.

  Look, Izzy, I’ve gotta go.

  They’re here.

  Who?

  Those same two Feds.

  Just drop it, Izzy.

  Don’t you want to find the killer, Macca?

  It was a robbery gone wrong. Gang of ice-heads, says Macca.

  You know that’s bullshit, says Izzy.

  There were riots last night. A police station burned to the ground up north.

  Who are these Feds?

  I gotta go, Izzy.

  Izzy stands on the balcony and smokes. Are those detectives in the car glancing over here? Her phone goes: ‘Ace of Spades’.

  Mister Foster.

  I need you to come home.

  I haven’t got the story yet.

  Story’s dead.

  Prison guards are dead. Story is alive.

  I’m killing the fucking story. You fucken deaf? Get your little arse back to civilisation.

  A cop in Queensland kills a black kid in custody. The kid’s liver is nearly cleaved in two. The cop is found dead – liver almost cleaved in two. Two prison guards kill an old black man in custody by cooking him alive. They’re found dead. Cooked alive. Now there are riots in Far North Queensland.

  If you aren’t on the next plane, I’ll clean the shit out of your desk and throw it on the fucking street myself. Then I’ll piss on it.

  He hangs up. Izzy finishes her smoke and lights another one. Shit. Nervous habit. Gotta get off these bastards. Gotta think. She tosses away her unfinished cigarette, and heads downstairs to the bar. What’s going on with Foster? He’s schizophrenic, that bastard. How did women get the rep for being moody? A story has an energy. In Baalboorlie, it’s easy for Izzy to believe that the story is a vein of gold, hidden down, hidden deep – to be found, confirmed, dug up, and melted down. Deal with Foster later. And Macca too. ‘Gang of iceheads?’ The Feds, or whoever they are, sure as hell don’t think it is. An ice-head couldn’t stand in one spot for a long time. For now, what is it that she can’t see? Izzy knows that when she sees it, it will have been right in front of her face the whole time – it always is. But being able to see things isn’t as easy as you think. The best place to hide a body is under a big pile of bodies.

  The bar is all wooden panelling with black-and-white tiles in the bar area. The gold moguls were dreaming of London when they built this place a hundred years ago. The bar has a few blokes sitting around drinking beer. Their rough work attire is incongruous with the formal gentlemen’s club decor.

  Izzy is served by a very young woman in lingerie who has her breasts and nipples showing through her lace top. Nice boobs, thinks Izzy – but do I have to look at them? She turns her back on the boobs, and takes in the occupants of the bar. Izzy imagines what the bar would be like if all the men had their penises out. Eugh. Not one of God’s best days.

  They’re all miners except for the table of three over near the windows.

  They would fit in if they were in any bar in St Kilda. But not here. News crew, for sure. Two younger guys in jeans, and the older journo in slacks and jacket. He has the corner of a folded-up dark blue tie protruding from his jacket pocket. Bumbags on the crew are a giveaway. Her phone goes off.

  Izzy.

  Macca.

  Macca, something crazy is going on.

  I didn’t tell you this.

  What?

  They’re not Feds.

  Izzy takes a drink.

  Defence.

  DIO, ASIS, what?

  Dunno. It’s classified.

  They think there’s a link, Macca. I saw it in their eyes. They wouldn’t be here otherwise.

  I gotta go.

  Macca?

  What?

  Thanks.

  There is a silence down the line.

  What is it, Macca?

  Big Bill never went to WA ... but I know your father did.

  What?

  Izzy can hear Macca breathing.

  When?

  Not long after we got home. You weren’t born then.

  What was he doing over here?

  She can hear Macca breathing.

  Macca?

  I gotta go, Izzy.

  Thanks, Macca.

  The line goes dead. Izzy drains her drink and heads for the door. She takes out a menthol cigarette, and takes in Hannan Street. The streets are wide enough to turn a bullock team around in. She remembers her father telling her that in the streets of Ballarat. They could be the same town, except for the red dust coating on everything, and the flatness of Baal. And now she knows her father came here after he came home from the war. And now Macca is acting all weird. Maybe it’s Old Men Going Crazy Day? Maybe it’s male menopause? Get off the pause button.

  You Izzy Langford?

  She turns at the sound to see one of the three from the window table.

  He wears G-Star jeans and a check-shirt over a black T, with crafted sideburns framing his face.

  James Mortimer. Channel Seven, Perth.

  She shakes his proffered hand. His hand is cool and smooth.

  Call me Mort.

  Izzy.

  I loved your Psalm Island series. Congratulations.

  That makes one of us.

  He laughs, showing a line of perfect white teeth.

  Aah, the difference between the story we want to tell, and the story we’re allowed to tell.

  I used to believe in freedom of the press.

  You’re an idealist, Izzy. This is a business.

  He lights up a Stuyvo Blue. She looks out at the street.

  You heard anything? she asks, trying not to sound too keen.

  Police are giving a press conference eight am tomorrow.

  They smoke. They watch as two Black Hawk helicopters bank over the town, heading towards the airport.

  Maybe they’ll have a result by then, offers Mort.

  I doubt it.

  Biggest manhunt since Jandamarra.

  Who’s that?

  Blackfulla freedom fighter cop-killer. Up north a hundred years ago. He held out for five years.

  They get him?

  They always get them.

  Izzy gives him a look. It was his tone change. Izzy knows full well that we all have different versions of ourselves living inside of us. That tone change is the curtains of a secret window blowing aside for a moment. Mort is looking away up the street. They finish their cigarettes and stub them out on the pavement.

  You wanna join us for a drink?

  I might go for a walk. See the sights.

&n
bsp; That won’t take long.

  Dunno if I can drink with the B-grade Victoria’s Secret show behind the bar.

  Basic, isn’t it?

  See ya later.

  Ya get used to it, Mort offers.

  I hope I’m not here that long, Izzy counters.

  They swap smiles and Mort goes inside. Izzy wanders up the street to the ATM. There’s an old Aboriginal bloke sitting on the footpath there. He has one wooden leg, which appears to be made out of a table leg with a section of sandshoe sole nailed to the bottom. He taps two sticks together and sings a song composed thousands of years before humans even arrived in Europe. Izzy withdraws some cash from the machine and drops some coins into the Old Bloke’s hat. He finishes his song.

  Janjou, Missus.

  I’m not married.

  No usband?

  No.

  Poor pfulla, Missus.

  Are you from here? Baalboorlie?

  He waves his hand with fingers inward in the direction of the vast desert out to the east of the town. Where the choppers came from.

  Big one wind blow true ere.

  Izzy looks up the street. The breeze is very light. She looks down to the one-legged old busker. His head is down, counting his coins.

  Spirit wind. Blows at night. Blow clean.

  Izzy squats down next to the Old Bloke. Something about his subtle change of tone ramps up her intrigue. He does not look up. She takes out a tenner and drops it in his hat. The banknote disappears as soon as it touches the old hat.

  Blowim bodies clean outta town.

  He flicks his hand away to signal the end of the conversation, and applies himself singly to the coin-counting task. Izzy stands up. Down the street the two cops still sit in their car.

  Blowim Bodies Clean Outta Town

  Izzy goes down Hannan Street and turns into Cassidy. She walks as briskly as she can without hurrying. Her mind is going much faster than her feet. She just gets to the corner of Egan Street, when the two cops in the car turn into Cassidy. They are for her. You’d think the lazy bastards would get out of their car. Foster has cancelled the job, the prick, and now the lazy cops are following her. It’s not Foster’s call anymore. Bloody cops. It’s a bit of a day.

  She walks the block. Egan will take her across Maritana, down Porter Street and back to the Palace. Just near the All Seasons Plaza, there’s a little alleyway with a dozen or so Aboriginal people sitting there. The people have blankets pulled over them, and regard Izzy impassively as she goes past the alley. The people are so still it is like Izzy is walking past a painting in the National Gallery, a still-life frieze entitled After the Gold. Izzy doesn’t stare. That’d be rude. When she does look in, no brown eyes swing to her in any kind of acknowledgement – they all continue to look straight ahead, to look out impassively as if the town wasn’t really here.