Sweet One

by Peter Docker

  The two cops in the slow-moving car stare ahead vacantly, as if their blank looks will of themselves convey to Izzy the message that she is not being followed. She gets back to the Palace and takes the stairs two at a time as she goes up to her room. She sneaks a look through her curtains to see the two plain-clothes blokes pull up in their new car just below in the street out the front of the Palace. They don’t get out of the car. Izzy goes to her carry-on computer bag and empties everything out of it except for the bottle of Stolichnaya vodka she brought from Melbourne, and another packet of menthol cigarettes. She turns on her TV and leaves her curtains open a little bit, then kills all the other lights in the hotel room. She knows the flickering TV lights will be seen from the street. She opens her laptop and gets Google on the screen. She types. She waits.

  Foster always told her there are two ways to get a story: with the heart, and with the feet – the head being an unnecessary distraction. She ponders his phone call as the screen comes up. She joined the paper when she still hero-worshipped Foster. Everyone did. He was reporting from Vietnam when Izzy’s dad was a soldier there. It’s a wonder they never met. Meeting your heroes can be challenging. Maybe that’s why he’s harder on her than all the others?

  He’s almost like Macca. For a girl with no father, she sure seems to attract father figures. She pushes these thoughts from her mind.

  She snaps the computer shut, grabs the bag, and heads back downstairs.

  She goes into the Hoover Bar, named after Herbert, who spent years in Baal as a mining engineer before returning to the States, and eventually becoming the thirty-first President of the United States. The Wall Street crash of 1929 struck less than eight months after he took office, and the Hoover Presidency sank without a trace. Hoover’s portrait in the White House could be called After the Gold. Intertextuality, thinks Izzy.

  The Hoover Cafe is empty. Izzy goes to the bar, climbs onto a stool, and then slides over the massive shiny wooden bar. Behind the bar, she turns, and goes through a door out to the kitchen area. There is a Vietnamese woman there, scrubbing the top of a large griller. She looks up.

  Hello, says Izzy, as though she was expecting to see her.

  The cleaning woman smiles at her, revealing a gap where her two front teeth should be, and goes back to her scrubbing. Izzy goes out the back door. She finds herself in a stinky alleyway with all the bins, and drums storing used cooking fat. The walls are high. She tries the metal gate but it is held fast by a padlock and chain.

  Left my boltcutters in my other pants, says Izzy to herself as she tries to figure out the space.

  Up on top of the wall, she can see that big shards of broken glass have been cemented along the crest. Izzy is reminded of the backstreets of Kabul. She opens the large bin with the fewest stains on the outside, and pulls out two flattened cardboard boxes. She throws the cardboard up onto the bin, and then climbs up. She stands up on the bin, and carefully lays the cardboard over the broken glass. She climbs up onto the cardboard on top of the wall. It’s a long drop. She goes to ease herself down to a sitting position, but then the whole thing slips off the wall, and she goes down into the alleyway. She lands with a grunt, throwing herself forward to keep on her feet, ending up in a little run.

  Izzy moves quickly up the backstreet, crosses Maritana Street, to where the Aboriginal people are still sitting in the alley. There is a young woman sitting on a milk crate near the front of the group. Izzy goes up to her.

  Hello. My name is...

  The young woman looks up to her.

  My name is Izzy.

  No response. Izzy pulls out her cash.

  I want to buy your blanket.

  The young woman looks at the cash.

  Fifty dollars, says Izzy.

  Iz-Izzy? queries the young woman.

  Izzy, Izzy confirms.

  Iz-Izzy, the young woman reconfirms

  There is a flurry of hand signals within the group that Izzy misses. Izzy peels off fifty dollars and gives it to the young woman. She gives Izzy the blanket. Izzy wraps herself in it, in the same way that the Aboriginal woman had.

  Can I touch im?

  What?

  Touch im, Iz-Izzy, and the young woman gestures with her lips at Izzy’s blonde hair.

  Izzy repeats the pointing-with-the-lips gesture so that she will remember it. The young woman laughs at Izzy’s imitation. Izzy notices that she is young. Older than the young mother near the rec centre – but not by much. Izzy nods. The woman stands, stretches forward and touches Izzy’s hair. She is a fine-looking young woman, with her hair held in place by a neat purple bandana. Her face has such a worn-in fierce look, that when she smiles, or laughs, it is like the sun bursting out from behind the clouds on a heavily overcast day.

  The fierce young Aboriginal woman feels the texture of Izzy’s hair. She steps in close, and without making Izzy feel uncomfortable, smells her hair. She steps back. The young woman turns to two very old women sitting behind some men and speaks to them in desert language. The two old ladies get up and come over to examine Izzy’s blonde hair. They laugh as they run their fingers through Izzy’s ringlets. One of them fires a question at the young woman in Language.

  My nana is wondering if you are cold?

  And she points with her lips at the blanket. Izzy repeats the gesture and they both laugh. Izzy shakes her head.

  I’m hiding from the police.

  The young woman translates this and the whole group break out laughing in the alley. Izzy is laughing too, swept up in the mirth flash flood. They all get to their feet and crowd around her, firing off questions in their desert language. Izzy laughs, and they all laugh, for a moment seeing themselves through Izzy’s eyes. Izzy is still holding out the other fifty-dollar note from her ATM withdrawal. Without warning, the young Aboriginal woman takes the note from Izzy’s hand. Izzy looks to her.

  Escort, she says.

  She laughs, and Izzy laughs too, seeing the genius of it. The best place to hide a grenade is in a huge pile of grenades.

  You got any smoke?

  Izzy takes out her opened pack of menthols and hands it over. The packet is quickly passed around, coming back empty. Izzy smiles.

  The two cops sit in their car outside the Palace Hotel, facing into town.

  In their rear-view mirrors they see a big mob of blackfullas cross Hannan Street. Fringe-dweller mob on their way to their night camp. They carry all their belongings in plastic bags, and some of them are completely covered by their blankets over their heads. The two men in the car think nothing of the travelling group, who head down Maritana towards the hospital.

  As the group of fringe dwellers come over the railway bridge and down to the entrance of the hospital, Izzy drops the blanket from her head. She holds the blanket out to the young woman. The young woman shakes her head.

  You bought im.

  You keep the money. I just rent your blanket.

  The young woman turns to the old ladies and translates.

  Rent? they ask, and laugh. Pay the rent!

  Izzy nods her goodbyes, and heads down to the hospital entrance. The mob keeps going towards the outskirts of town.

  At the far end of the hospital building there is a ramp leading to a doorway. It’s not the Emergency or Administration entrance – must be it. There is no sign. Izzy goes down past Emergency to the door she wants. As she walks past the Emergency entrance she looks in but sees no one. She tries to imagine the flurry of activity when those prison guards turned up here with the Old Man – still alive but in a state of collapse, with a core temperature five degrees Celsius above normal. His flesh would be so hot you could almost burn yourself on him.

  They would be running with ice, and machines to plug the Old Man in.

  Would your mind be asking the how, or would you just be concentrating on the job at hand? Izzy arrives at the nondescript door of the morgue.

  She goes through into a brightly lit area. There is a counter but no one is behind it. Place is deserted
. There is a button to summon someone after-hours. Izzy ignores it and jumps the counter. There are two doors. She opens the first one. An empty office. She closes the door and goes through the other one. It opens onto a corridor. She goes down the corridor, and through some swing doors at the other end. Izzy finds herself in an open area with sinks along one wall, workbenches in the centre, and metal beds on wheels. The door at the end must be to the bodies. In Kandahar they’d have a guard here, Izzy thinks. With Third World justice, those despots all know that the bodies tell the story. She heads straight for the door but only takes a few steps before the door opens, and a young man in a light-blue uniform comes out. He is too skinny, has dreadlocks and bad skin, and gets a real surprise to see Izzy.

  Hey! You can’t be in here!

  I’m sorry, I...

  How’d you get in?

  There was no one at the desk, so I...

  You can’t be in here! I’ll get in the shit.

  Izzy flicks her tight blonde curls, and looks very lost.

  What’s your name?

  Larry.

  Larry? Really?

  What’s wrong with Larry?

  Larry – I’m Izzy. I’m really sorry. I don’t want to get you into the shit.

  What do you want?

  I want to look at some bodies.

  Now?

  Sorry. It was the only time I could come.

  They relations?

  Friends.

  No way.

  It won’t take long.

  No way. I’ve already had the supervisor in here once today. I’ve pulled a double shift, you know? Spanner never turned up.

  Izzy takes out the bottle of Stolichnaya.

  I brought this.

  A bribe?

  A thank you.

  Who do you wanna look at?

  From yesterday.

  Larry’s eyes dart this way and that.

  No fucken way. They’ll kill me.

  Come on...

  I can’t.

  Larry...

  I can’t. I’ve only got the sauna couple, anyway. They took the other two.

  Izzy keeps her breathing steady, and holds out the bottle. Other two?

  You might as well take it. I don’t drink.

  Larry accepts the bottle.

  I don’t want to get you into trouble. You want to come for a smoke?

  How’d you know I smoke?

  Stains on your right-hand fingers.

  Larry looks down. He holds out the offending fingers. When he sees that the fingers are shaking, he quickly drops his hand. He takes in Izzy. She sure is something special. He nods affably, and they head out, with him stashing the bottle under the counter on the way. Izzy opens a fresh pack. They light up their smokes.

  Dunno how you can smoke menthols.

  Stops people botting.

  Not out here.

  I’ve noticed.

  You up from Perth?

  Melbourne.

  Larry smokes.

  I hate this fucken place, he says.

  Who came for the bodies?

  Arseholes in suits. Plain white van.

  Silver hair? Crew cut? His mate four axe handles across the shoulders?

  That’s them. Pricks.

  They threaten you?

  Who are you?

  An interested party.

  I got phone calls from Perth, telling me to cooperate. As if I wouldn’t. As if I give a fuck. They think we’re all rednecks.

  The bodies bad?

  One with a slit throat, and multiple stab wounds; the other with two gunshot wounds and my guess, a car crash as well.

  Who were they?

  Fuck knows. Hard-looking bastards. You know – fit. Whoever did them...

  They smoke. Izzy stubs hers out, and gives Larry a smile.

  Thanks, Larry. Sorry about barging in like that...

  You’re right. Thanks for the Stoly.

  Forget about it.

  You can look at the cooked chooks if you want to. I’ve still got them.

  Izzy hesitates. She’s already got the cooked chooks. Larry looks disappointed.

  Quickly then, she says.

  Larry stubs out his fag, and they head back in. Larry is moving fast, enjoying the idea of subterfuge. They march straight out the back and he goes to the big fridge, and slides out two compartments. Izzy pulls out her phone and takes a photo of the roasted remains of Howell and Stockbow.

  Larry looks shocked.

  What are you doing?

  Private collection, Larry. Some people collect stamps.

  You better go.

  Thanks, Larry.

  I’ll see ya.

  Yeah. See ya.

  Izzy turns and walks out. She turns off her recorder as she passes back through Emergency. It takes her just over ten minutes to get back to the hotel. She only stops once – to throw up over the edge of the railway bridge. Her vomit arcs out like lumpy yellow rain, and splatters the blue metal next to the steel tracks. She lights another menthol to get the smell of vomit out of her nostrils. It doesn’t work.

  The cops in the car get a surprise when they look up to see her walking back into the main entrance of the Palace. She hears them swearing as she disappears inside the hotel. Back in her room, Izzy showers and climbs into the big hotel bed. All night she keeps waking up thinking that there is someone walking around in her room. In her dreams she hears the floorboards creak-creaking – but when she wakes, all is silent.

  Ringing Mum

  It only takes Izzy a few minutes to walk around the corner from the Palace to the police station. By the time she gets there she is already regretting drinking the instant coffee in her room. She didn’t want to come down for breakfast, didn’t want to have to mingle with strangers.

  The police station is one of those big solid whitewashed colonial jobs.

  She half expects to see a contingent of mounted police canter around the corner in loose formation, carrying Spencer repeating rifles, riding out to hunt for Ned Kelly, or Jandamarra. There is a whole brace of TV crew cars out the front, and everyone is heading into the station for the briefing. Izzy thinks about how she would have covered the Kelly Gang story. She would’ve staked out all the local opium dealers, and sooner or later Joe Byrne, or his agents, would turn up.

  Amongst the throng of media, Izzy sees Mort from Channel Seven. He’s hard to forget. Mort is carrying a gear bag inside when he looks up and sees her. Mort gives her a big smile, like they are old friends.

  There is a cop standing at the front door, it’s the same bloke who moved her on from the rec centre yesterday. As Izzy goes to follow Mort inside, the cop reaches out and stops her. Izzy looks down at the police officer’s big meaty hand, hovering just in front of her chest.

  Sorry, press only.

  I am press.

  Name?

  Langford. The Star.

  The biggest selling newspaper in Australia.

  Let me in.

  You no longer work for the Star.

  Wanna bet?

  Sure.

  I still hold a press card.

  I suggest you talk to your employer.

  You said I no longer work for them.

  Former employer.

  What about if I make a run for it?

  Then I’ll be forced to wrestle you to the ground, he says, and almost smiles.

  Izzy looks around.

  I’ll wait here. The Deputy Commissioner has to come out sooner or later.

  Suit yourself.

  Izzy ambles along the wide veranda, trying to get a look inside the station through the big bay windows. They all have closed blinds. The cop follows her along. She gives the cop a look for luck, and goes and sits down on the front step. She takes out a smoke.

  You can’t smoke within five metres of the front door.

  Izzy stands, lights her smoke, and takes three big steps away from the station. Foster, the bastard. She soaks up the morning sun, and puffs away. She takes out her phone and dials.


  What?

  It’s Izzy.

  I fucken know who it is! Marvellous invention, the telephone.

  I’m still here.

  What do you want?

  After everything you said...

  I warned you. Now you’re fired.

  You know what – I quit!

  Ya can’t fucking quit – you’re fired.

  I should’ve gone years ago.

  You’ re wasting my time, Izzy. You’ve been sent your notice and your back pay. I’ve provided these details to the relevant federal authorities. I don’t want to hear from you again. The story’s dead. Next time we speak it’ll be in the foyer.

  He hangs up. She finishes her cigarette. The foyer? There’s that tone change. What’s he playing at? Two helicopters fly low over the goldfields city. Izzy watches them bank, gain altitude, and head out in different directions. They can’t have too much of a clue, or the search would be concentrated. People start coming out of the police station.

  Izzy sees Mort with his group.

  That was quick.

  He read a statement. No questions.

  What did it say?

  Two dead. One injured, not seriously. Just in for observation. Treating as double homicide. Suspect a disgruntled prisoner. There is a manhunt underway. Expect an arrest soon.

  Two dead?

  At the rec centre.

  A police car comes out from the back of the station with the Deputy Commissioner and other senior officers in it. As the car sweeps past them, the stern-faced officers all eyeball Izzy hard.

  She shudders as if someone just walked over her grave. Izzy always pictures a mass grave somewhere. Best place to hide a body is in a big holeful of bodies. And the best place to hide a hole is in a place with a lot of holes.

  You want to go for a coffee? asks Mort.

  Coffee?

  There’s a Dôme.

  I’d kill for a coffee. A real coffee.