Sweet One

by Peter Docker

  What rate?

  Fifty percent, I believe.

  And you call yourself a police officer, Smithers? No wonder he wants to kill you!

  Sir, I...

  Shut up, Smithers! You disgust me.

  I don’t know what you are used to in Brisbane, Detective McIntyre...

  I spent the first five years of my policing career at Aurukun, you fuckwit. Let me paint you a picture. Nana comes and borrows five hundred bucks because she needs to feed her grannies. Her husband punches her, and takes the money to get drunk. So she comes back for more to get the food. Now she owes two grand, and the loan shark has her for life. She never gets her keycard back. She can close the account or move, or sell her arse to the local miners. And it is Detective Inspector, you fucken wanker! Start protecting your citizens. All of them. Do your fucking job! Get a big cordon around the crime scene. Keep me informed. Don’t hold anything back. Your career may be over anyway.

  Yes, Sir.

  Which club?

  I beg your pardon?

  Which golf club?

  Number two wood.

  Real wood, or titanium?

  Real wood.

  Did you know that the wood is from a tree known as persimmon, or ebony?

  I’m not a golfer, Sir.

  Macca hangs up.

  Thank you, he says to the ops room staff. As you can see, I believe in transparency. This secrecy bullshit has got us nowhere. Get back to work.

  He storms out of the operations room, and goes back to Izzy.

  Don’t Leave Town

  The police van pulls into the disused railway yard with two squad cars following. Izzy climbs out of the back with the female detective still hovering close by. Macca gets out and comes over to her. The rest of the police are heavily armed. They form a cordon around Macca and Izzy.

  Are you sure? asks Macca.

  It was two things. First the smell of the super pit; and second, when they let me out back near the Albion, I had these tiny black stones with sharp corners in my Blundstones.

  And you could hear the super pit.

  She tries to smile.

  Yeah.

  Where do you hide a tree? asks Macca.

  In a really big haystack, says Izzy with no satisfaction.

  She swallows hard, and bites her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

  They look up at the looming monster of the super pit, which grinds away with the sound of trucks and heavy machinery. They look down at the broken-down bitumen they are standing on, to see the loose gravel blackened by long exposure to the tar that used to hold it all together. Macca looks around. There are signs of campfires and leantos built out of cardboard and old blankets. And everywhere there are empty red and white beer cans, and silver wine bladders blowing about. But not a soul to be seen. Fringe-dweller camps – refugee camps – look the same all around the world. Same as suburbs.

  Izzy looks over at the nearest pile of railway sleepers. There is something about the stack. It is slightly too ordered when taken in the context of the rest of the junked-up chaotic railway yard. Izzy points to the pile of old railway sleepers with her lips. Macca instantly sees exactly what Izzy means. He approaches the pile. Izzy follows. As they get close to the stack, they can see that it is all resting on a newish looking piece of canvas. Macca signals to the boss of the uniforms.

  Move these sleepers.

  We patrol here all the time, Sir. There’s nothing here.

  Humour me.

  The coppers sling their weapons, and all get on the end of a railway sleeper. Macca lights a cigarette. He holds his packet out to Izzy. She shakes her head. By the time Macca finishes his fag, the stack of sleepers is moved off the canvas, which is spread across the cracking bitumen. Macca and a TRG bloke grab the canvas at two corners, and drag it back to reveal the entrance to a tunnel system. There is a ladder set into the near side of the shaft.

  Familiar?

  This is it, says Izzy.

  You and me, Izzy, says Macca.

  They go to the ladder.

  Sir, we need to get a contingent...

  Stand down, Sergeant. If he was still here – we’d already be dead.

  Macca leans across and grabs a torch from the TRG Sergeant’s tool belt, and gets on the ladder. Izzy follows him down. In a minute they are down in the chamber where Izzy conducted the interview.

  How’d you know he’d be gone? Izzy asks.

  One, they brought you here; and two, he’s finished in this town. You all right, Izzy?

  I made a mistake, Macca.

  Don’t end up on the wrong side again.

  Izzy looks at the floor. Her lip trembles. She wipes it with the back of her hand. Macca watches her in the periphery of the torchlight. Macca drops his voice.

  We can’t go after Mort. But going after Sweet One will lead us to Mort. This BlackCu thing is red hot. Bigger than Ollie North. This is the way we have to do it. We have no choice.

  Izzy nods, remembering his tone when he said ‘gang of ice-heads.’ Macca’s tone has been so constant that it lulled her. Lulled her because she missed the first tonal change. Just like Macca missed her target glance at Big Bill’s body. Macca has been leaned on. Foster has been leaned on. Mort is with the crew that did the leaning.

  What really happened at the sea container?

  They were torturing Xavier. Your nameless mates from the government.

  They must be BlackCu, says Macca.

  Izzy nods.

  How’d you get there?

  Mort drove me. He killed them all.

  Why’d he take you?

  Because I told him I’d been here. Where is Mort?

  Classified, says Macca.

  Izzy goes to protest, but gets control of herself.

  Why did he kill them?

  They’re all in this BlackCu. Set up originally to infiltrate Xe Services, says Izzy.

  Macca is nodding.

  Blackwater, he says.

  They were using drone strikes to kill Taliban in the opium trade, then stealing the cash from the US government, and the opium from the Taliban. Maybe someone threatened to blow the whistle? Maybe Sweet One? Who knows.

  So it’s about the cash?

  Yo, must be the money. Fifty mill. Mort knows where it is. Smokey and Sweet One are his loose ends.

  Isn’t anyone called John or Peter anymore?

  Macca shines his torch down an underground tunnel.

  Where does it go?

  Dunno.

  What about the black kid? asks Macca.

  He was probably the driver in the Aransen breakout.

  Why kill him?

  More loose ends? Maybe Mort wants our guy to come after him?

  HELLOOOOO! a voice yells down from above.

  Who is it? yells Macca.

  Izzy is looking around the chamber. It is stripped clean, with only the faint smell of Smokey’s cigarette to say that anyone has been here recently.

  My name is St John Churnside, QC. I represent Ms Langford.

  Macca looks to Izzy and raises one eyebrow.

  Foster, says Izzy. What can I say?

  Remember whose side you are on, Izzy.

  Macca holds her gaze for a moment, and then turns off the torch. They go back up the ladder to the bright sunshine in the empty and derelict railway yard.

  Detective Inspector McIntyre, I presume.

  Churnside QC has a voice like treacle. He is a big man who is going bald, wearing a three-piece grey suit, and yellow polka-dot bow tie.

  I believe that congratulations are in order, Detective Inspector.

  I haven’t caught him yet.

  I mean, of course, for your recent promotion.

  What do you want?

  My name is Churnside, QC. Are you able to inform me if any charges will be laid against my client?

  Macca looks at Churnside QC.

  She’s all yours.

  Churnside QC takes a protective step towards Izzy.

  No charges. For
the time being, adds Macca.

  Thank you, Detective Inspector McIntyre. Come on, Izzy.

  But – Izzy? Don’t leave town.

  I’m definitely leaving town.

  Churnside QC steers Izzy over to his shiny silver Range Rover Sport parked behind the two police squad cars.

  How did you find me?

  I have friends, says Churnside cheerfully.

  See you there! Izzy calls back over her shoulder.

  The police are setting up a cordon around the site. Two TRG officers are going down the ladder.

  Where? calls Macca.

  Somerset! calls Izzy.

  Macca shakes his head, climbs into the police van, and picks up the radio handset.

  Churnside QC roars out of the old railway yard in his big shiny silver Range Rover Sport. He laughs to himself.

  See! Fucking cops! They all had to turn and look! Cept for McIntyre, but that bastard is hard as fuck. Jell – lusss! Suck my cock, boys! What you earn in a year I go through in one night in Vegas!

  Churnside QC roars with laughter at his own invective. Izzy looks at him sideways.

  You a friend of Foster’s?

  That old bah-stard!

  Figures.

  Have a sleep if you want, my dear. Long drive ahead, I’m afraid.

  Where we going?

  Questions, questions. I do know Foster, the old bah-stard, but it is in all actuality Queenie you have to thank for my presence.

  Queenie?

  Any friend of Queenie’s is a friend of mine.

  Churnside QC comes up to a police roadblock. The officers there remember him from last time and wave him through. It’s just not worth it with some people.

  How did you do that?

  Because, my dear, I AM A GOD!

  And he laughs their way out onto the highway. Izzy gets the giggles. The moment reminds her of Josh. She stares out at the slag heaps with tears filling her eyes and the laughter still on her lips.

  Charcoal and Camel Shit

  Smokey stumbles under his heavy pack.

  Whatsamatter, Coorda? Going soft? says Sweet One without turning back.

  Smokey looks at the figure of Sweet One, five metres in front of him, also straining under his bulging pack.

  It’s all right for you, Brother – you slept in the fucken car.

  I was resting my eyes.

  They keep up their pace across the searing desert sand, the banter flowing back and forth. They are so used to this old trick of pushing each other through pain and mental barriers that they don’t even notice they’re doing it. Ahead of them there is a distinct tree line along a dried-out creek bed. In Smokey’s head he is picking up his radio handset and preparing a fire mission on those trees before he goes anywhere near them. Then if someone shoots at him he’ll instantly bring those big American shells right down on them. His eyes search through the trees. Nothing. Smokey lets the thought go. He knows there is no fire support on this mission. No air cover. This is how it feels to those tribesmen they fought in the narrow valley. Smokey can only respect them more and more.

  The walkers make it to the outcrop of scrub and go to ground in the depression made by the flowing water of the creek, which is now nowhere to be seen. They shed their heavy packs, and drink from plastic flasks. The plastic clings to the taste of the water. Their eyes are on the country they’ve just trekked through, scanning for any sign of being followed. Satisfied, they laid their automatic weapons against their packs. Sweet One goes down the creek bed another fifty metres to the east, and finds what he knew would be there. There is a massive pile of empty bottles and cans, and other drinkers’ debris strewn across a flat sandy area. There are cast-off bits of clothing, a child’s pusher lying on its side, a smashed mobile phone, and endless empty grog vessels. The community is dry by law – so when the drinkers are getting stuck into it with the gurri provided by the sly groggers, they come out here.

  In the centre of all the rubbish is an old fireplace. Sweet One goes over and squats near the old coals, and motions Smokey over.

  What now? asks Smokey.

  We have to go into Burwarton.

  There’ll be cops. Lots of them.

  That’s why I need you to blend in, my Brother.

  Smokey comes over and squats. He shakes his head.

  What about my sensitive skin?

  This is sensitive charcoal, Bruz.

  Smokey closes his eyes and holds his face out in submission. Sweet One takes the charcoal and rubs it into Smokey’s face, hands, and neck, concealing his white skin and his red beard.

  I thought you were always telling me I’m really a black man?

  This way your skin will match your soul, Brother.

  It’s not gonna fool anyone.

  It’s only gotta fool gudias from a distance.

  I feel whiter than ever.

  Over in the west the sun is starting to go down. They go back to their packs and weapons and hide them in a hole made by a tree coming down. They cover the hole with dead branches and carefully sweep away any tracks leading to the dead tree hole with branches from the spindly eucalypts. They settle their pistols into their belts, hidden by the flaps of their shirts, and strike out in the direction of the community.

  Why didn’t we fucken drive?

  You’re just shitty cause you’ve run out of smokes.

  They walk in silence, the setting sun at their backs.

  What are we doing way the fuck out here, anyway?

  When Sweet One talks, he is calm. He knows that this angry teenager bullshit is just an act with Smokey. He noticed the blood seeping through the shirtsleeves on his forearms when they met up the day before yesterday, and he knows that Smokey is locked in a struggle with himself. He wanted Smokey to come out here. Smokey is a good soldier. A good man. A good brother.

  I’ve got to speak with that Old Fulla.

  Smokey chews on this. He long ago made a rule to himself not to comment on black man business. Now he feels like he’s inside it. He walks silently beside his black brother, wishing he had a smoke. He doesn’t feel bad about being inside. It feels like the most right he’s ever been in his life, a life filled to the brim with wrong. Killing that rapist taxi driver and that loan shark was easy. Enjoyable even. He had right on his side – an avenging angel. Not like those kids on that last patrol before Sweet One got swept up into that CIA/BlackCu shit. Those frightened eyes follow him around, even now, staring out from their torn up bodies – always with that same unspoken question. He tells himself over and over that they would’ve killed him. They were armed – he was armed. But it never seems to work, they still look like frightened kids. He envies Sweet One, who doesn’t seem to be afflicted by his weakness.

  And we’ve gotta get you a fucken smoke, Bruz, before you kill me with your whingeing.

  If I see any cops, I’ll just start singing – ‘Mammy, how ah luv ya, how I luv ya, my dear sweet Mammy’.

  And he does the black-and-white minstrels telltale hand movements to complete the picture.

  I don’t think you know the words, Coorda.

  They come around in a big arc so that their approach to the community will be from the north, from the river. The low flat buildings come into view in the fading light. There are four police vehicles parked in the community of about twenty houses. They go to the edge of the next low sandhill and go to ground on its lip.

  The police have a white tent set up under a stand of trees near the only entry road to the community. They see them usher an old woman into the tent. The police are conducting interviews in a desperate attempt to glean some intelligence. Without interpreters they won’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell. The cops don’t know why the older people are terrified, and the young people are insolent. It was only a generation ago out here that policemen with guns arriving meant a whole different thing. That’s the trouble with the whitefullas; they don’t know their own history. The cops sweat, swat flies, and adjust their gun belts, and don’t know why they c
an’t feel comfortable.

  The two soldiers watch them. Smokey swears under his breath. He fingers the hilt of his knife in his left armpit.

  You right, Bruz, Sweet One reassures him. They’re searching for intel. Trying to isolate our support base. It’s what we would do.

  Smokey nods. He’s just hanging for a fag. He can’t believe how weak his mind has become. He would go weeks and weeks on patrol and never even think about it. The ridge of sand has a high point another twenty metres along from where they are lying. Without saying anything, they crawl up the highest point.

  They see a range of Toyotas parked all around the buildings.

  Few extra vehicles, says Smokey.

  People must be coming in to see her, says Sweet One.

  Must be why the cops are here.

  Their eyes go to the police in and around the white tent.

  I’ve got eight.

  Yeah, eight.

  Their nostrils flare at the big pile of camel shit that they’ve crawled up next to. They look across to see a mob of about fifty feral camels near the trough at the north end, where they need to enter from to avoid the police. Sweet One crawls closer to the pile of camel shit. Smokey watches him, and starts to shake his head.

  Come on, Brother, I’m already blacked up.

  Camel don’t care about your colour. But he sure do care about your smell.

  Can’t you just whisper the bad-tempered bastards?

  That was my Jamu.

  Smokey swears. They both scoop up handfuls of camel dung and rub it all over themselves. They lie there in their camel stink and watch the cops. In another ten minutes the sun is gone. They get up and walk around to the north end, where a few camels still mill around the water trough, and are starting to settle down for the night.

  Make Him Bleed – That Kind

  It takes the two soldiers another forty minutes to circle the community and come in from the north. The camels have gone to ground for the night. They look at the two humans passing but none bother to get up, or make any sound. There used to be a fence beyond the water trough but the camels pushed it down a long time ago. There is a car wreck this side of a bough-shade next to a corrugated iron dwelling which has the back door ripped off. Smokey and Sweet One crouch behind the car wreck and take in the community. There is hardly anyone moving around, the presence of the police changing the normal routine. The cops have set up a generator near their white tent at the other end, near the entrance, and the tent is lit up like a Christmas tree. There are two cops walking around the community, visible only because they are both carrying torches. The beams cover the ground in front of them, and dance around, bouncing off the dilapidated buildings of the community.