by Peter Docker
This my Aunty Marg, Aunty Myrtle, Aunty Queenie, my samename, Nana Fay, and Nana Mary.
The old ladies all smile and nod. Queenie speaks to them in Language, and they all laugh.
You wanna cuppatea?
Izzy looks up and notices a massive urn on the kitchen bench. If an extra fifty people turned up, and all needed a cup of tea, then Nana would have no problem providing. Izzy feels even more like she could be in her own grandmother’s cottage now. She nods, and Nana Fay gets up, and pours her a cup. It is crowded in the little kitchen, and nowhere for Izzy to sit.
She stands by the sink and dunks her tea bag up and down. She realises that the talk has stopped since she has come in.
Why did you help me, Queenie?
Have I helped you?
I don’t know.
Izzy takes out her tea bag, and puts it in a little plastic container full of kitchen scraps. Either for chooks or compost.
You know who it is, says Izzy, looking at the facedown photograph on the little table.
Who’s chasing you?
Who they’re chasing.
Queenie sips her tea.
They’re chasing you, says Queenie.
They’re chasing you too, if you’re driving me.
Maybe they’re not chasing any of us.
Izzy drinks her tea. Is it possible to observe the story if you are in it?
Course it is, says Foster – punters love that shit! But is it journalism? Is it real, or honest, or whatever. It’s a business, said Mort. She’d forgotten about Mort.
Can you drop me back at that pub?
The Denver?
Izzy nods.
Why?
Better to die than to live like a coward.
Izzy finishes her tea. That was good. She notices that everyone in the room is looking directly at her, even the little girl. She still can’t get hold of who understands what. All she knows is that she knows nothing, and understands even less.
Why do you say that, my girl?
The voice that comes from Aunty Myrtle is steady, and her English perfect. Izzy does her best impression of Queenie’s pointing-with-her-lips gesture, pointing through the wall to the photograph that she had studied on the little table in the lounge room.
Gurkhas.
Now everyone is nodding. The energy in the kitchen changes as if the sun rose and shone new light through the curtains.
That photo is my Jamu, says Aunty Myrtle, clearly the oldest woman present.
Izzy looks to Queenie with the question in her eye.
Grandfather, confirms Queenie.
They called him Afghan here.
They’re from Nepal, says Izzy.
All the women are nodding.
That photo is taken just outside of Kandahar, says Izzy.
How do you know? asks Aunty Myrtle.
I’ve been there.
Some hand signals flash around the kitchen, so subtle that Izzy only just notices, but can’t comprehend. Young Queenie stands.
Let’s get you to the pub, then.
The old ladies all laugh again. This time as Izzy is leaving, they all get up and embrace her. Queenie hugs them all as well. They head out. Xavier gets up from the couch without a word, and follows them out to the Monaro.
You know about Gurkhas? Queenie says.
Just that place. That photo means they were part of the Second Anglo–Afghan War. 1878 to 1880. Roberts smashed the Emir’s forces and installed the Emir’s younger brother as a puppet on the throne. He used the Gurkha Rifles as shock troops.
You sound like a munartch, proper.
What?
P’liceman.
Journo – we have to know shit.
Shit! You are the shit!
They pause either side of the car and look at each other across the blue roof.
We know who you really are, Izzy. We know why you’re really here.
The Denver Please
Queenie guides the Monaro with its creaking suspension down Lefroy Street, across Bayley, through the gravel car park at the back of the Denver City, and parks behind an eight-tonne truck so that the car can’t be seen from the road. Izzy knows from her reading on the plane that this street is named after Sir Henry Bruce Lefroy, who was in Sir John Forrest’s Cabinet from 1892 – a squatter who stole vast tracts of land from the natives, and became very rich out of cattle and gold. There are no streets named after the inhabitants of this country for countless thousands of years before Lefroy arrived. The good Sirs made sure of that.
The two women get out of the blue Monaro, and Xavier lies down on the back seat. They head into the pub. They go in through the side door and walk through to the front bar. A hundred years ago this was a grand building. The pressed metal walls are all original – but now painted over a pale yellowy white. About a dozen blokes in hi-vis gear sit at the bar. Some of them are in pairs, but mainly they are alone. Izzy thinks about the big bloke with the Celtic tatts and gnarled hands on the plane. They’re all drinking white cans of Jim Beam and Coke. Behind the bar is a voluptuous Maori woman who lights up when she sees Queenie.
Hey, my sister!
Hey, Sis.
This is my friend, Iz-Izzy.
The spunky Maori woman offers her hand over the bar.
I’m Kira.
Izzy.
What can I do you girls for?
Izzy looks up at the line of blokes on bar stools who are all looking at them. Feeling their eyes roaming over her body like ants looking for honey, Izzy is thinking about Somerset’s men arriving in this country a hundred and twenty years ago, and seeing the naked black women for the first time.
Two Beams, please, Kira.
Kira gets out two cans, puts them on the bar and pops their tops.
That’s something I don’t hear much.
What’s that?
Please.
They laugh.
You having one?
Kira smiles and nods, and gets herself one. Izzy puts money on the bar.
Cheers.
Cheers.
They all drink. Izzy looks up. One of the miners is still staring at her. She notices his hand on the bar fiddling incessantly with his yellow cigarette lighter. She looks around at the other men. She’s seen the edginess that blankets them all before, years ago, in another country. Speed is such a shitty drug. Who needs a drug to stay awake? It’s getting to sleep that is the problem. But it’s out of your system fast, so you can pass a piss test.
Fiddling-Lighter-Man stares at Izzy hard and strokes his moustache.
Whatsamatter mate? Haven’t ya seen a white woman before?
Not with tits like yours, he shoots back, and sips from his Jim Beam and Coke.
Oi! Fucken hell, Presti! Where’s ya fucken manners? says Kira forcefully.
Come off it, Kira...
One more word, Presti – and you’re cut off!
Presti looks away. Kira looks like she could punch him out herself.
Sorry, Iz-Izzy. Wanker! says Kira, and she spits the last word at Presti the Fiddling-Lighter-Man.
He probably meant it as a compliment, offers Queenie.
You have got great tits, says Kira with a smile, and goes off to serve another bloke around the other side of the horseshoe-shaped bar.
Is she...?
Dunno, says Queenie, and they both laugh.
They drink.
So ... what’s your plan?
Izzy takes out her BlackBerry and very deliberately reassembles it and switches it on. She puts it on the bar. They stare at it as if it is some artefact from another culture. The phone starts making little shooting noises.
What’s that?
Messages.
Are you a shooter?
It’s an old joke from ... I should change it.
She puts the phone in her pocket.
What did you talk to Jamu about?
Wild dogs.
Queenie nods.
I hope you know what you’re doing, Iz-Izzy.
They drink.
Speaking of wild dogs – you wanna put a bet on?
Izzy looks up to notice the TV up high on the front wall. Greyhound races are in progress. Queenie wanders over to the form guides plastered on the walls with Izzy in tow. Every male eye in the bar follows their movement.
I’ve never done it before.
Grab a little card. Race four – who do you like?
What makes them run?
They chase the rabbit.
They ever catch the rabbit?
Nuh.
Don’t they remember that they never catch it?
They like to run.
Number three – Silky Khan.
Good choice, Sis. Shade that, and that.
They fill out their little betting cards.
Who you like?
Bustin Back. I’m taking the trifecta.
Three dogs? Why do you ask, Three Dogs...?
They laugh and put their cards into the processing machine. Kira comes over.
Twenty bucks.
Izzy hands over a note.
What now?
Race will be on in ten.
I’m going out for a smoke. You coming?
Those things will fucken kill ya.
Izzy goes out onto the street and lights up a menthol. Someone has put a large Milo tin out there for butts – but the smokers seem to pride themselves on not getting their butts into the tin, and they lie all around on the urine-stained street. Across the other side of Bayley Street there are three little Aboriginal kids on old bikes. All three of the old bikes have no tyres, and the rubberless rims make a loud clatter on the concrete footpath. The smallest kid has no chain on his bike and he propels himself along by running his bare feet on the pavement. The oldest kid would be no more than eight years old. They stop their game, and look across the wide expanse of Bayley Street to where Izzy is smoking. A police van turns into Bayley from Ford Street, and makes a beeline for the little kids on bikes. The police van approaches the kids fast, and the tyres screech as it brakes sharply in front of them. A large female police officer jumps out of the van.
Where’s your bloody helmets?
The kids apply themselves to their pedals, and the pavement in the case of the youngest, until they are about five metres away.
Come here!
The kids look back impassively at the screaming policewoman.
Where are your fucken helmets?
All three of the kids spit. It is such an exaggerated action that you can almost see the adults present whom they are imitating – older brothers and cousins, no doubt.
You little pricks!
She takes off, and they take off. They move faster than the big copper, and then stop a little way off to look at her. This game is obviously more fun than the last one.
You fucken little turds! the copper shouts. I want those bikes!
I’M WATCHING YOU!
The voice that comes out of Izzy is so loud that it even surprises herself.
The large female copper looks over.
Bully for you – BITCH!
The police officer takes off after the kids again. Izzy has her phone out, zooms in, and snaps the huge white copper chasing the little black kids on their clapped-out bikes. She keeps screaming at them the whole time. She almost gets them but they always seem to be just out of reach.
Izzy smokes, and reviews her shots. The copper is so large and white, and the kids are so small and black – the shot of her shouting at them is the winner. Her mouth is open fully, and the strain in her neck of shouting makes it look as if she is about to pop a vein. The policewoman eventually gives up and goes back to her van.
You still looking? she yells out to Izzy.
Yep. And I’ve got photos – BITCH!
Izzy hits SEND on her phone and the photos head out into cyber space.
The policewoman turns and marches across the road.
You better learn to mind your own business.
Or what? You gonna lock me up after you finish harassing little kids?
They are required by law to wear helmets.
What’s your name?
Senior Constable Kressin. What’s yours?
Number?
Piss off.
You piss off.
And at that moment, Queenie comes out of the bar.
I said, what is your name?
I heard you, Kressin.
As a police officer – I’m asking you for ID.
You’re not a police officer.
I’m not kidding. I’ll take you in. Right now.
You’re a schoolyard bully.
This is the last time.
Izzy takes out her licence and shows Kressin. Kressin snorts.
Victoria. I fucken thought so.
Where are you from – Planet Thug?
Our race is about to start, Izzy.
Your race is finished, girlie, Kressin says to Queenie.
That’s funny, Kressin – because you couldn’t even catch those little kids, says Izzy with a smile.
Izzy stubs out her cigarette, and gets the butt into the Milo tin.
I’ll be seeing you, Miss Victoria.
In your dreams, Kressin.
Queenie and Izzy turn to go back inside.
Is she a lesbian? asks Queenie loudly.
Definitely.
I think she fancies you.
The Wide Clint Eastwood Street
Izzy sits at the bar with her BlackBerry and quickly smashes out three hundred words to go with the photo. Queenie watches her. Izzy hits SEND, and sips from her Jim Beam and Coke.
Racing now at Wentworth Park...
Kira grabs the remote and turns the race up. Queenie and Izzy drink their Jim Beams and look up at the screen. The big skinny dogs take off and tear around the track after the mechanical rabbit. Izzy glances down at her betting card.
Come on, Silky Khan! Come on!
They can’t hear you.
COME ON, SILKY KHAN!
Queenie laughs. This girl mad.
It’s Silky Khan from Chicken Joe, Best of Times, and Bright Star ... But here comes Bustin Back! It’s Bustin Back down the outside, it’s all Bustin Back, winner of last year’s Vic Bitter Cup, it’s all Bustin Back, Bustin Back from Silky Khan, and Chicken Joe, with Bright Star falling away ... As we wait for the official numbers...
Izzy drains her can of Jim Beam.
You pipped me at the post, Izzy says.
On the screen, the official numbers go up, and Kira mutes the TV.
Jeez, Kira, ya never turn my races up, says a bloke from the other side of the horseshoe bar with a shaved head and a Chopper Read moustache.
When’s the last time you bought me a drink, Tony?
If I bought ya one, would ya put out?
I wouldn’t put out if you bought me the whole pub.
Is that how this place runs, baksheesh?
It’s how the world runs, Tony. Where’ve you been?
Down a hole.
Some of the other blokes in the bar smile grimly at this exchange.
Queenie steps up to the TAB machine on the bar, and slips her betting card in. Kira grabs the card as it comes out the other side, and reads the screen.
Three hundred and eighty-two dollars, and seventy cents.
Kira counts the money into her hand.
I love giving you money, Sis.
Me too. Nother round of drinks, please, Kira.
Kira gets out three more ice-cold white cans. Izzy and Queenie sit at the bar, with their eyes turned to the street, visible through the front windows. A white station wagon with a big red seven on the side drives past. Izzy gets off her stool and crosses to the window. The Channel Seven car does a U-turn, and then another, and parks right in front of the Denver. Izzy goes back to Queenie.
You all right? asks Queenie.
Yeah.
Do you know those news fullas?
&n
bsp; I’m not sure. Go up the other end. You don’t know me.
Queenie picks up her drink, goes down the bar, and slides in next to Presti. The door to the hallway from the street opens, and in walk Mort and Kizzo. Mort flashes her his big smile, and comes over. All the men in the bar watch him kiss her on the cheek, but only Queenie notices his fingers press briefly against her side as he leans in for the kiss.
Izzy. Where’d you get to?
Mort. Kizzo. I thought you must’ve had to work.
Mort’s eyes flick around the room. Something starts to click with Izzy.
She’s seen that type of eyework before.
You blokes having a drink?
Maybe one, says Mort.
You working?
Recce.
Two more, please, Kira.
What? Are you a local already?
Part of the furniture, says Kira, and gets the drinks.
Izzy drinks. Her eyes wander out to the Channel Seven car. Leaning on the car and smoking is Captain Trim Beard from the Hoover Bar. In the streetlight she can see his black eye. Izzy smiles to herself, before the real thought hits her.
I’ve gotta go for a slash, announces Kizzo.
Me too. I’ll show you, says Izzy.
Oh, it’s like a commune, snorts Mort.
I might change into my cheesecloth sarong, Izzy throws over her shoulder.
Izzy and Kizzo go back through the front door, turn right and follow the maze out to where they can hear the leaky cistern. Kizzo goes into the Gents, and Izzy sticks right with him.
You right? asks Kizzo.
Izzy grabs him by the shoulders.
Tell me again what you told me at the early opener.
What?
Who is Mort?
I hardly know him.
He’s not crew, is he?
He got assigned to us after what happened at the airport. No one has ever heard of him in the industry before. They say he’s from over east.
Over east?
Like you – not from WA.
What happened at the airport?
We were waiting to doorstop a polly. There were these cops nearby, they were saying all this racist shit, you know, I’m sorry about bludging off welfare, I’m sorry for all the paedophilia, sorry about all the houses we wrecked, sorry about all the white women we raped...
Yeah, I got that.
This bloke appears from nowhere, and floors the whole four of them, screaming and shouting at them. Real Bruce Lee shit. He hurts the cops. The cops get their guns out, tell him to get down, and all that stuff – but he laughs at them. Then this army colonel appears, he settles the cops down, takes a long while, they aren’t too impressed, and the bloke gets whisked away. Channel Seven gets a call from Defence. The bloke is an SAS trooper, probly some messed-up vet off the plane from Afghanistan, and it’s illegal to film them, or discuss them without written permission, and all that.