by Peter Docker
An alarm sounds. Smokey jumps up.
Come out fighting, he says.
Can I visit you again?
He smiles a quick almost-smile, and then shakes his head. Smokey moves back towards the electronic gate without a backwards glance. A countryman falls in beside him, and there is a rapid exchange in desert language between them. Izzy watches him go.
She glances down at her shorthand notes which litter the page like ink tracks from drunken insects. She didn’t get anything. He was foxing. Dancing around the ring, avoiding everything by staying on the move. Everyone knows more than her. And none of them are talking. Maybe the promise to kill Big Bill in the heat of battle, in the cold acid of combat, as Josh calls it – maybe that’s true. Smokey is the cop-puncher from the airport. He’s SAS. Who he is punching for is known to Queenie. ‘Ngwarla. Sweet One,’ he said. Who knows Smokey. Who knows Mort. Who is in it with Silver Hair and Four Axehandles, and Cap Trim Beard. Mort is SAS. They all are. Have to be. Need to get access to some classified shit. The killer is SAS. And a blackfulla. Some kind of tribal Rambo.
Visiting Time
Izzy stands in the doorway of the motel room and smokes another menthol cigarette. She watches Queenie drive away in the Landie. Queenie didn’t say much. She knew Izzy would want to be alone. Izzy needs to take stock. Hunting out the sniper in Smokey’s eye has made her want to get on the front foot. She glances up at the Albion Hotel – not as flash as the Palace but at least she’s out of town. She takes out her BlackBerry and assembles it. She throws the half-finished smoke onto the concrete, and goes into her room at the Albion. She plugs the phone into her charger at the outlet by the bed.
Let’s see what Mort has got to say about this.
She closes the outside door and goes into the bathroom. She undresses, gets under the water, and starts to shake the shampoo out of the little bottle into her hand. These shampoo and conditioner bottles were designed by a bald person. Eventually, the brunette rinse comes out, and by the time she gets out of the shower, she is her blonde self again. She pulls on some jeans and a shirt, this time all buttoned up. She lies on the bed. It is lumpy but passable. She closes her eyes to relax, but this action brings the song from the Old Bloke with the wooden leg rattling around in her mind. She opens her eyes and the song fades. She closes them, and the volume comes up again. Then there is the whimper from the sleeping figure on the floor lapping at her feet like waves from an inland sea.
There is a sharp rap on the door and Izzy sits up.
Here we go.
She leans across and hits RECORD on her sound recorder.
It’s open.
The prefab door swings open with a creak. Silver Hair and Four Axehandles are standing there with the night at their backs. They come into the room slowly and look around. Izzy doesn’t move from the bed. There is only one chair in the room parked into a little desk coming out from the wall just inside the door. Silver Hair grabs the chair and places it near the bed. Four Axehandles remains in the doorway.
We know everything about you, Izzy.
That’s nice for you.
I thought you, of all people, would understand, continues Silver Hair.
Understand what?
You’ve been to Afghanistan. Twice.
So?
We know about Foster pretending to fire you. We know about your photos. You love bodies, don’t you? Must’ve been like a kid in a lolly shop, you in Afghanistan?
Awesome use of simile, dude.
We know about Detective McIntyre, and his misplaced loyalty to your father.
Misplaced?
We know about your smoking and drinking. We’ve read the first drafts you wrote about Bill Furphy.
And how has this helped you?
Who is the black girl?
Some kid too stupid to realise I used her.
We’ll find her.
Have you found anyone since you’ve been here?
Silver Hair glances at her BlackBerry.
Do you think recording me will help you?
Can’t hurt.
I don’t exist, Izzy. You have no idea.
So give me an idea.
You are a silly girl. You’ve already gotten people killed.
Do you people ever take responsibility for what you do?
We do what has to be done.
Who decides what has to be done? We have a right to know what you do.
We know that all three of the soldiers you slept with in Tarin Kowt are now dead.
You’re lying.
Turn on the news. Green on blue, yesterday.
Izzy turns her face away from the men.
Are you crying for them or you?
I’m not fucking crying.
Pity.
Get fucked. At least I’ve got some fucking feelings.
This man we are dealing with is a killer. In Afghanistan, one of the very best. But here, he is an abomination.
I’ve seen Rambo.
This man murdered two top company men.
Other killers?
Men who were crucial to negotiations with the Afghan government. This side show here is merely a postscript – the last gasp of a homicidal maniac.
Maybe this is the main game.
I don’t want to see you get hurt.
Izzy laughs.
The man you went to see, Aransen, made a phone call to our guy in the field from a sat phone somewhere in Perth. Ten minutes later, our guy had gone underground, and the other two assets were dead.
Have you seen the back of the prison van where those rednecks cooked that Old Man to death?
Fuck, Langford. You aren’t listening.
The Old Man was a veteran. Anzac Day. RSL. Aren’t you blokes fighting on the wrong side?
There are no sides anymore.
If you want to bring me in – you’re a little too late. You had your chance.
This is not a game, Izzy.
If you’ve come to warn me off, you’re wasting your breath. Pull my father’s file if you want to know why.
We have, says Silver Hair. We didn’t come to warn you off, Izzy. We came as a courtesy. We know you were close with Josh. Come on, Izzy. You’re one of us. Why don’t you go home now, go to his funeral, say your goodbyes? Don’t you want to be there?
Izzy stares at him. Then looks away.
You know nothing about me, she says to the floorboards.
Silver Hair stands.
I told you it was useless, says Four Axehandles from the doorway.
We’re moving Aransen, says Silver Hair.
Izzy sits on the bed. She closes her eyes simply to disappear them from her vision. Her mind is on her last Skype to Josh, the pistol in his hand, and the burning dog running through her dreams.
Without another word Silver Hair stalks out of the motel room. Four Axehandles follows. Izzy doesn’t open her eyes until she hears the door close behind them.
Izzy grabs a menthol cigarette from her computer bag. She switches off her sound recorder. She steps outside. She takes a big drag, and looks out into the South Big Rock evening. It looks more like Kabul than ever before. What were they doing here? The humourless spooks? It’s official – all the men in Izzy’s world are going insane! She smokes for a good minute or so before she gets that creeping feeling. She glances to her left. There, sitting on a plastic chair, is Mort, also smoking away.
Fuck, Mort! You scared the shit out of me!
Sorry.
How long have you been there?
Long enough.
Are you here to kill me?
I was hoping for something a little more intimate.
I’ve been told that killing another human being can be quite an intimate moment.
Who told you that?
Aren’t you afraid of being with me?
Mort flicks his still burning butt into the car park. They both watch the tiny red glow until it fades into the night.
I don’t believe in all that shit.
; Am I your case now? Your subject? Your target?
Not my target.
Do you admire the Taliban?
Hate the fuckers. Sorry about the word ‘hate’.
The tribal fighters?
Tough bastards. Live by a code.
Sounds familiar.
Izzy flicks her butt away.
They’re only taking him to Perth, says Mort.
Izzy does her best impression of Smith from The Matrix:
‘No, Lieutenant. Your men are already dead.’
Mort gives her a look like he’s seen a ghost.
You wanna go for a drive?
Does it involve drinking?
Most likely.
Bring it on.
On the Road
The sun is gone. Night comes down on South Big Rock. The lights and the noise from the super pit are a constant grizzle underneath everything. The streets are empty.
The main gates of Eastern Goldfields Regional Prison open, and the brand new Isuzu pulls out into Vivian Street. Ian Farley is driving, with Tony Suporio in the co-driver’s seat. Farley is taking it real steady. As they turn right into Goldfields Highway, they don’t notice a young countryman lad with his head down, leaning against an old building. As the prisoner transport vehicle drives past, the lad stands up straight and flashes a torch. Two hundred metres further on, another lad flashes back, then turns and flashes his to the next one in line. This light signal travels down Vivian Street, makes a left turn into Shannon Street and is picked up by a hooded lad who leans into a Toyota 4WD parked nearby, and flashes the headlights.
At the foot of the entrance to the super pit, there is an old disused railway yard, dwarfed by one of the biggest open-cut mines in the world. In this yard of machine-hardened soil there are piles of old sleepers and scrap metal. Amongst the debris there are several campfires burning to warm the souls of the fringe dwellers living there. A countryman sees the single flash from headlights on the edge of Big Rock, maybe a kilometre away. He wanders over to a big pile of railway sleepers. With the nulla nulla he is holding in his hand, he taps the sleepers twice. Immediately two taps answer him from below. He wanders over to a fire where two other blokes are drinking, and sits down.
A few minutes later, a Toyota 4WD covered in red mud comes down from the entrance to the super pit. It’s one of those nondescript mining jobs with the tall red aerial with a red flag on it, and an orange hazard light on the roof of the cab. It has so much mud caked on it that the number plates are completely obscured, front and back. The Toyota loops around on the ring road, following the cyclone fence put up by the mining company, and then pauses briefly on the road adjacent to the fringe dweller camp. Just long enough for a man to emerge from the tall dry grass on the verge, and slide into the back of the Toyota, under the tarp. The Toyota continues on.
Out on the highway, Farley and Suporio have been cruising for about an hour. Suporio notices the clock on the dash. He picks up the two-way radio.
Base, this is one.
Base. All good?
Good as gold.
Thanks mate, out.
Suporio picks up his thermos. Up behind the Isuzu comes a mud-encrusted Toyota. The Toyota comes racing up to the back of the white Isuzu, without dipping the high beam. The two big spotlights on the bullbar of the Toyota are blasting out Farley’s mirrors. Farley swears. His wing mirrors flash a wall of light back at him.
Where’d ya learn ta fucken drive?
He starts to slow the Isuzu.
Get off my arse, you wanker!
The Toyota behind beeps its horn a few times.
Whaddaya beepin me for, ya wanker?
Slow down; let the prick past, says Suporio.
Yeah, and get his plate. I hate these mining wankers, acting like they own the place!
Farley slows the Isuzu even more.
Come on! Come on!
The Toyota zips past. But instead of flying away down the highway, the Toyota gets right in front of the Isuzu, and brakes heavily, forcing Farley to brake hard.
In the back of the Isuzu, the prisoner braces himself against the walls.
Farley and Suporio are too slow on the uptake.
Can you read his plate?
It’s covered in mud.
Suporio picks up his big torch.
Why don’t we stop, and I’ll explain the road rules to this arsehole.
We can’t stop.
It won’t take me long.
By now the two vehicles are crawling up a long slow hill. The Toyota brakes and the Isuzu nudges the back of the muddy tray.
Get on the radio, mate. There’s something fishy...
Suporio grabs the radio. Sweet One sits up in the back tray of the Toyota. He is holding a Browning Hi-Power with two hands. He fires. Double tap into each target. Farley and Suporio drop dead, blood pouring from their chest wounds. The Isuzu wants to keep going. The Toyota jams on the skids, and the Isuzu hits the other vehicle as the speed bleeds away from both vehicles. The Isuzu is still revving high. Farley’s foot must be on the accelerator. Sweet One aims at Farley’s body and fires again. The two rounds hit Farley’s body high on the left shoulder. Farley’s body spins and slumps, and his foot comes off the gas. The two vehicles come to a standstill on the highway. The lights of the Toyota get switched off. Sweet One jumps out of the Toyota tray, and runs to the Isuzu, stashing his pistol as he goes. He jumps up, shoves Farley aside, turns off the lights, and follows the Toyota as it drives and turns off onto a little track to the left. They drive for about a kilometre with their lights off, and then stop.
Sweet One takes the keys from the ignition, and then those from the belt of Suporio. He grabs Suporio’s big torch and puts it in his belt. He goes around to the left side of the van where there are two doors. He takes out his pistol, crouches down to the side, and reaches out to open the first door. There are two whoosh/clunk noises: suppressed shots. Those two shots come from the interior and kick up the dirt behind where the door opener should have been standing. Sweet One rolls back into the space in front of the door and returns fire. His two shots hit Captain Trim Beard in the chest. Sweet One rolls away as the body falls out of the prisoner compartment. He picks up Trim Beard’s weapon and goes to the other door. He looks at the weapon, a Beretta 9mm Dolphin with silencer.
Fancy.
Sweet One repeats his door opening process. There is no firing. Sweet One steps into the space. Smokey is there, smiling down.
Jeez, you’re an ugly bastard!
Who were you expecting?
I was hoping for Pretend-Mel.
She’s busy.
Doing what?
Keeping Mort occupied.
Smokey jumps down from the van. The two men embrace. Then Sweet One steps back, still holding the Beretta.
Tell me straight, Brother. Did you hurt Mel?
Come off it, Brother. It was Mort’s thing, says Smokey.
Did he fuck her?
He might’ve. If he had coke, probly, yeah.
Sweet One scoffs.
What? You think I don’t know I’m an ugly man, Brother? And Mel is first-class honours, says Smokey.
Oh, fuck. Here we fucken go!
They turn, and climb into the back of the Toyota, which drives off, still without the lights on.
Laughing and Shooting
The Holden Caprice pulls out of the drive-through bottle shop, and Izzy and Mort crack the top of their gin and tonics. They drink. Mort pilots the big car to the highway, heading north-west.
You all right? asks Mort.
He’s a fucken prick, your boss.
I’ve heard yours is too.
Yeah. They’re all pricks.
Mort takes out a Stuyvo and lights up. Izzy follows suit with a menthol. A single tear pushes its way out, and ambles down her cheek. Mort sees her swipe at it in his periphery.
I’m not him, Izzy.
I don’t know who the fuck you are, Mort! You probably don’t even know.
Touché.
Mort drives. They smoke. They drink. They ride through the red dust night. They ride out past the lights of town, and the glare of the open-cut pits. The only other traffic is the red-coated mining 4WDs with their big red aerials, and orange lights flashing. They finish their smokes. Izzy glances out the window and realises that they are really flying.
Mort.
What?
Slow down. Please.
Shit.
He slows the Caprice until he eventually pulls off, and parks by the side of the road.
You all right, Mort?
He just told you about Josh, didn’t he?
Yeah.
Mort finishes his UDL and crushes the aluminium can in his fist.
You knew Josh? asks Izzy.
Mort opens a fresh can.
Josh saved my life, says Mort.
Mine too, says Izzy quietly.
Izzy opens a fresh can.
That’s Josh for ya, she says.
They sit in the car. They drink from their cans of grog. The tears roll freely. There is nothing to say. They sit in silence. Drinking. Outside the car is the desert. Outside is the night.