Too Close to the Wind

by Richard Attree

  “So, gentlemen, thank you for coming to my ‘little soirée’ ... (he gave us his smarmy politician’s smile). Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the Consortium.”

  We raised our glasses in a toast.

  “You’re here because you all share an interest in developing the resources of the region, which as you know includes a rather unique cactus plant growing out in the Bungle Bungles.”

  I gulped down some wine. So, that’s what this was all about.

  “Now, following the government’s decision to make this plant illegal, we need to think out of the box and look for less, ahem, conventional ways of exploiting it.”

  Nods of approval from his guests.

  “That’s why I was asked to convene this brainstorming session with the key players.”

  He looked around the table, sat back, and invited our input.

  The pharmaceutical executive made the first move. He was holding a strong hand and he heaped his chips high. He told us that initial trials of the cactus had been positive and he was looking to take the project to the next level:

  “Since the inquiry in Perth banned the recreational use of this psychoactive plant, our negotiations with the government have been going well. We have every hope it may become an important drug in the treatment of mental disorders, but there still remains the problem of the indigenous people.”

  A couple of the other guests muttered to themselves, expressing their opinions about this obstacle and how they would deal with it. The pharma executive was looking for a negotiated settlement with Mandu’s people:

  “We need someone to represent us and mediate with the tribal elder to persuade them to accept a deal.”

  He looked at me and added that now Dreamtime Plant Products had bitten the dust our contract was no longer valid, but his board had authorised him to offer me a job as a ‘consultant’.

  I gave him a noncommittal response. Of course I was tempted, but I was worried by his use of the word: “persuade”. What he said next did nothing to allay my concerns:

  “The thing is, Malcolm, this window of opportunity is limited. It’ll no longer be possible for you to use kid gloves with these people. The gloves are off and you’ll need to be a lot more persuasive.”

  He left a pause to allow this to sink in as I swallowed another gulp of wine.

  “If this isn’t acceptable to you, Malcolm, then unfortunately we will have to look for stronger partners.”

  He glanced around the table at our host and his burly sidekick.

  Mr Nice Guy politician chipped in, eagerly accepting the pharma executive’s gambit and declaring his suitability for the role of “troubleshooter”, citing his ability to deal with trouble, his expertise with shooters and his lack of scruples when it came to “booting that bunch of Abos out of the bush!”

  Mr Nasty covered his friend’s bet and raised the stakes:

  “Look guys, we’re into a totally different ball game now. This bloody cactus has been criminalised, so with respect, Mr Fraser and his operation are no longer relevant.”

  He gave me a menacing stare as he said my false surname. So far he’d given no indication he knew my true identity, but now I was paranoid he was keeping that particular ace up his sleeve.

  “Fair dinkum to him and his Dreamtime Products for creating a demand, but the rules of the game have changed. Me and my associates are the experts now.”

  He sat back, grinning malevolently, knocked back a whole glass of wine and belched smugly. It looked like the Great White drug sharks were intending to feed on the corpse of my business and muscle their way to controlling the lucrative recreational market for the Plant.

  The mayor gave Mr Nasty one of his unctuous smiles and agreed that this was exactly what was needed: “out-of-the-box thinking and non-standardised solutions ... and I’m convinced that the synergy in this room can provide them.”

  We raised our glasses and toasted the consortium again.

  The chief of police had maintained a stony poker face so far, keeping his cards close to his chest. Now he revealed his hand. He could see the logic of Mr Nasty’s argument that a newly criminalised drug needed genuine criminals to bring it to market, but it put him in a difficult place professionally:

  “Obviously my hands are tied when it comes to supporting such a venture publicly, but I might well be open to exploratory overtures if privacy was guaranteed.”

  He gave Mr Nasty a meaningful glance and the drug shark nodded in return. I was again reminded of the expression: ‘a nod’s as good as a wink’. The Chief continued to play his cards adroitly:

  “Meanwhile, if our colleague (he gestured to the pharma executive) could speak to his board about making a contribution towards the cost of policing their operation, then I can guarantee my wholehearted support.”

  The executive replied that perhaps if the Chief could outline what kind of support he could provide, then he would see what he could do.

  “Well, if things turn nasty out in the bush then you’ll need our backup.”

  “I see” the executive replied, “and when you say: ‘turn nasty’ what exactly did you have in mind?”

  “I mean the kind of protests that are organised by leftie do-gooders who want to obstruct progress and dump us back in the dark ages.”

  He glanced in my direction as he said this.

  “So where do you stand on the political spectrum, Chief?” Mr Nice Guy politician asked him. “Vis a vis the land rights issue, I mean?”

  “Well mate, I can tell you I’ve got no time for the Abos’ crazy idea that they have prior rights to our land, and I’ll do everything in my power to stop anyone from getting in your way.”

  His steely expression, as he looked straight at me, made it quite clear who he had in mind.

  At this point I decided the stakes were far too high for me. I would have been happy to cash in my chips and leave the game, but the others had laid their cards on the table and now they demanded to see what I had in my hand. They expected me to join their consortium (although Mr Nasty insisted on calling it the “Syndicate”). I had to choose: either I was with them, or I was against them, and they made it clear: there’d be serious consequences if it was the latter. So, was I in, or out?

  The more I thought about it, the more trapped I felt. I may have done a few things in the past that weren’t strictly legal, but I wasn’t ready to become a full-time criminal. I had over-reached in the White Man’s world, been seduced by fame, fortune, and my inflated ego, fallen out with Mandu, but there was no way I could betray him.

  On the other hand, if I declared myself out the consequences would be serious, probably painful, possibly even fatal.

  I was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Wedged in so tight I might have to cut my own arm off to get out. I needed to buy some time, so I thanked them for including me in such an ‘exciting opportunity’ and told them I’d give some careful thought to how I could contribute.

  Unfortunately, this didn’t satisfy them. They called my bluff and demanded an answer that evening, or else they’d assume I was out. In which case, it would not be possible for me simply to get back on my motorcycle and leave.

  OK, I said, I’d give them my answer a.s.a.p ... but please, let’s at least finish this superb meal. I picked up my crystal glass of vintage Hunter Valley red and re-toasted the success of the consortium ... “and The Syndicate, of course” I added, winking at Mr Nasty.

  Dusk set in as we progressed through the five-course meal, but it was difficult to enjoy the excellent food as the darkness at the edge of the party closed in on me.

  Once dinner was over, the serious drinking started. The waitresses cleared everything away and then disappeared, leaving the hostesses to service the guests. The mayor’s ‘little soirée’ abandoned all semblance of sophistication and began to resemble a scene from Hogarth’s ‘A Rake’s Progress’ or a Roman orgy.

  The noise level cranked up until there was an edge of violence to it. The banter bec
ame aggressive shouting. The mayor and his opposition colleague were arguing over one of the girls, yelling political slogans at each other like drunken dictators. The chief of police was locked in verbal combat with my predatory stalker, the Great White drug shark, arguing the merits of various weapons and comparing their guns, knives, tasers.

  Underwear littered the strobe-lit dance floor, the swimming pool was full of naked revellers, and the dark recesses of the party were occupied with cavorting couples.

  I retreated from the mayhem and found myself in a corner of the room discussing the Plant with the team from the pharmaceutical company, extolling the consciousness-raising benefits and bemoaning the government’s shortsightedness in banning it. The pharma executive asked me if I had any cactus seeds with me—he was interested in trying it ... “for research purposes, you understand.”

  I wasn’t sure. There was just so much going on that night—so much scheming, manoeuvring, posturing. It all felt like an elaborate game, a setup, a trap ... or was I overcomplicating things?

  I looked around the room nervously. The main players all seemed occupied, shouting at each other or boozing and carousing with the hostesses. It didn’t seem like I was being observed, but that didn’t stop me from feeling like I was being spied on.

  Truth was, I needed a toke to relax and take the edge off the paranoia. It was a vicious circle—smoking the Plant produced paranoid delusions (along with delusions of grandeur), and then I needed to smoke some more to cope with the delusions. I understood this, but it didn’t stop my dependence on those illegal little cactus seeds.

  I reached into my jacket and produced the pipe Mandu had given me. It was a constant companion these days, along with the leather pouch of pellets. I packed some seeds in the bowl, lit up, and drew the smoke deep into my lungs, feeling the familiar calming rush. I passed the pipe to the pharma executive. He drew on it, passed it to his colleague, and for a while we shared it in silence.

  The effects of the Plant kick in and now we’re in the zone, inhabiting the present moment like dogs or babies. Time jumps in discrete steps, instead of flowing past like a river. The doors of perception open and I’m flooded with stimuli. Sounds become shapes. Colours become smells. The music becomes blurred, out of focus. I gaze at the faces around me, trying to read them, but they’re closed books.

  Time jumps. My thoughts become darker. I’m no longer enjoying this. I can’t work out who is friend, who is foe … The chief of police is staring at me and whispering with the mayor. Chinese whispers or paranoia? He picks up his mobile and makes a call.

  It feels like they’re all looking at me now, shuffling closer, surrounding me. The party implodes, becomes a claustrophobic world like a prison cell. The darkness at the edge of this world presses in on me.

  Paranoia is a strange sensation. It creeps up on you slyly, hiding in the shadows. You turn round, catch a glimpse of something ... It inches closer and you feel it tighten its grip ... Confront it and it dissolves in the darkness, like an echo, but the feeling doesn’t go away.

  Time jumps, again. It’s now later, or rather it’s now and later. Perhaps it’s now or never.

  Suddenly people are coming out of the shadows towards me—men, carrying nightsticks, searching for something or somebody.

  They stop and take in the scene of depravity, nodding to some of the guests. For a moment I think that they’re just friends of friends, that they’re not out to get me, that the darkness is all in my mind. But fingers are pointing …

  “Malcolm Fraser?”

  The question is directed at me. It’s a good question and it requires some thought. But I’m looking at them through a telescope the wrong way and my answer is vanishing in a cloud of possibilities … Who am I, indeed?

  I smile and shrug.

  Somehow this is the wrong response. They aren’t amused. They surround me. Grab me roughly. Bind my wrists. Drag me outside. Throw me in the back of a windowless wagon. Hit me repeatedly with their nightsticks. A blow smashes into my skull.

  Am I being kidnapped by these heavies? Is this the end?

  These are my last thoughts as I sink into the blackness.

  It’s a funny thing, paranoia. You start to wonder if you’re delusional, and events prove you wrong.

  17

  Fall From Grace

  Sunday, October 22, 2017, 07:45—the morning after the night before. I woke up in a police cell, covered in cuts, bruises, my own vomit and urine. My head felt like it had been used as a punchbag by a gang of kickboxing kangaroos. I tried to focus on the events of the previous evening, but they were a blur.

  The party had spiralled out of control, that much I knew. The noise level was insane. Sex, drugs, and rock-’n-roll (well, hip-hop and gangster rap) had breached acceptable limits. Violence threatened. Perhaps the neighbours had complained? No, that couldn’t be it. The villa was so secluded, with acres of space and a private beach.

  I vaguely remembered the chief of police whispering with the mayor, staring at me, making a phone call … Then the party had been raided, by thugs who weren’t in uniform. The last thing I remembered was a blow to my skull and then I must have passed out. At least I wasn’t being held hostage by the Mob, but why had I been arrested?

  I tried to clear my head, to think straight, but there was just a dull aching void. There must be some memories left in there, a clue somewhere, surely? No, nothing but panic. I gazed around the grim, lonely cell, buried my aching head in my hands, and wept.

  Later that day I was charged with possession of a banned substance with intent to supply, and resisting arrest “... and that’s just for starters” the detective told me, producing the confiscated pipe and pouch full of seeds. It would do, for now, to hold me for a few days while they investigated allegations of further misdemeanours. He cautioned me (“it may harm your defence if you do not mention something which you later rely on in court …”) and asked if I had anything to say?

  There wasn’t much I could say about the first charge. The evidence was there on the table and I didn’t bother to deny it, but resisting arrest…?

  “That’s bullshit, mate!” I told him. “It was you lot who used violence against me and I’ve got the bruises to prove it.”

  I pointed to the egg-sized lump on my forehead.

  “I’ll be going public with my complaints of police brutality as soon as I speak to the press and my lawyer ... and by the way, I demand that right immediately.”

  “No problem, all in good time Mr Fraser” the detective replied, “if that is indeed your real name ...”

  He gave me a searching stare.

  “In the meantime, I suggest you take a look at the arresting officer’s report.”

  He handed me a typed document.

  “You’ll notice it’s been corroborated and countersigned by the other three officers who were present.”

  I read the report with a mix of dismay and anger. It claimed that following a tip-off from ‘undisclosed sources’ they’d been engaged in a surveillance operation at the luxury beach villa (which explained why they weren’t in uniform). An unnamed informant (presumably one of the guests) had witnessed illegal drugs on the premises, so they decided to ‘infiltrate’ the party. They ‘mingled with the revellers’ for a while, and then observed the use of a banned substance. When challenged, the suspect (me) had been inebriated, incoherent, abusive, and aggressive. They’d used the minimum force necessary to restrain and arrest the suspect.

  A doctor had apparently examined me at the police station and declared that I was under the influence of a psychedelic drug, suffering from paranoid delusions and hallucinations, but nothing much was wrong with me physically. The suspect had sustained a few minor cuts and bruises as a result of his ‘lack of motor control’, but he wasn’t at risk of harming himself, and so had been detained in a cell to ‘sleep it off.’

  I told my interrogator their report didn’t tally with the truth. They should speak to the other guests at the party—the mayor
and the detective’s own chief, for instance. They would, I’m sure, support me. Then I gave him my version of the facts:

  “The mayor invited me to the villa to participate in discussions with a multinational pharmaceutical company about licensing the cactus. Discussions which could bring wealth and employment to the region.”

  The detective looked at me blankly.

  “An executive from the company approached me, wanting to get first-hand experience of the Plant for research purposes.”

  I ignored his grin and continued my statement:

  “We were peacefully enjoying the experience when four men grabbed me, dragged me outside, beat me, and threw me into an unmarked van.”

  He looked down at his notes and nodded—at least we agreed about the number of men that had beaten me up.

  “They weren’t in uniform and they didn’t show me any ID. I assumed they were criminal thugs and that I was being taken hostage.”

  Another snigger. My statement seemed to be the most amusing thing he’d heard that year.

  “I was heavily outnumbered so I offered no resistance. Their so-called ‘minimum necessary force’ involved punching me and hitting me with their batons.”

  He was trying to hold back actual laughter now.

  “And I have absolutely no recollection of any doctor examining me!”

  The detective was seized by ugly, rasping, guffaws, like a coughing fit.

  “Well, yes, there you go mate” he spat back at me, when he’d regained his composure. “No recollection, you say? Obviously too out-of-it! Your version of the facts? As the doctor says: hallucinations and delusions.”

  I shook my head, sadly.

  “And by the way, Mr Fraser ... (he smirked as he said my false name) ... we have interviewed other witnesses, including, as you correctly mentioned, my boss, and they broadly corroborate the arresting officer’s account.”