by Jay Darby
Williams sniggered. “I’ll tell the crew. And listen, I want you and Betts to stay on this.”
“No need, Delaney has the sleuths at missing persons on the job…”
“I’m still boss of Sydney City. These girls were taken from my patch, and we both know some of them won’t be coming home. When the shit hits the fan, won’t be told I did nothing…”
“A white van with unknown red logo’s not much to go on.”
“Agreed, but I want you and Betts searching. It’s the best, our only chance of finding these girls. Moorecroft and co might’ve given up, but we frickin’ well won’t.”
Porter nodded. Steve Williams, the champion bloke, needed to outrank his pompous boss persona more often.
“That quote you fired at Moorecroft earlier…” Williams said. “A famous Roman did say it, right? About he who criticizes, something like that...”
“Nah, I made it up there and then.” Porter’s laugh mimicked the dastard villains who’d dared resist Roger Ramjet. “Moorecroft reckons he got one over me, disrespecting Jane with his gollywog comment. But the look on his face when he realized he’s nothing but an overpaid, clueless drongo…Priceless.”
Williams sighed. “Savour the victory, Port, but you’ve embarrassed him tonight and there’ll be repercussions…Is Ken Moorecroft an enemy you need to have?”
FOUR
KA43 stood in a dim tunnel and waited for the drums. He sniffed at the stale air, pulled the black cloak down to cover his knees, and bent to tuck black cargo pants into GP boots. He straightened, then adjusted the hood to hide everything above his eyebrows. KA207 stood opposite, dressed the same, the grin on his face wider than the harbour bridge.
KA43 turned to the girl next to him, the first in a column of fifteen. Her body shook under the white, satin robe. A cloth bag covered her head, her hands were shackled. A rusted chain hung from the leather belt around her waist and connected her to the girl behind.
A bass drum boomed ten times. The ginormous wooden door in front of KA43 creaked open. He tugged on the chain and pulled the first girl forward. She staggered, then screamed. The girls behind screamed with her.
KA207 took up position near the end of the column. “Woohoo! Let the show begin…”
KA43 stepped through the doorway and onto a concrete path. He glanced to his right as he led the human train into the cavernous air raid shelter. Hundreds of black-clad soldiers roared from their seats in elevated concrete rows like excited fans in a football stadium. The black army. Fiery torches hung from walls to caste an eerie glow over them.
He pulled the girls forward and looked up to his left. Members of the High Council watched proceedings from a three-meter high concrete platform. They sat on marble, throne-like chairs, their faces hidden by ivory masks. In the middle, the Supreme Leader wore a red gown gilded in gold lace. The seven men around him wore purple gowns, and each had a high-peaked hat matching the color of the gown. A ninth man, KA7 the Master of Ceremonies, wore a royal-blue costume. He stood on the platform’s edge, waved his arms like a crazed music conductor, and whipped the black army into a raucous frenzy.
Ten meters past the platform, flames burst from a furnace built into the limestone wall. A white-hooded Fireman heaved on a bellow while another fed logs to the fire. A third Fireman, his hands and arms covered in steel mesh, pulled a meter-long metal rod from the furnace. He placed its’ glowing tip on an anvil and lashed it with a hammer. Sparks flew, metal clashed with metal. He returned the tip to the furnace.
KA43 led the girls to the shelter’s far side. The area resembled a cattle sales yard, with wooden corrals lined along the wall. The column of girls stumbled to a halt. He unlocked chains attached to the first girl’s belt, and they clattered on the concrete floor. He pulled her from the column and pushed her into the corral. Two assistants rushed forward, then secured her shackled arms and legs to chains attached to wooden posts. She hung with her back to the black army, hands above her head, toes scraping the floor.
KA43 stepped into the corral and ripped the robe from her. Her black nakedness shimmered, sheened in sweat.
KA207 laughed like a demented child.
The black army whistled and jeered.
KA43 instructed his assistants to repeat the process with each girl.
Ten minutes later, the black army roared. Fifteen teenaged girls hung naked in chains. Heads covered, alone in their pens, lambs ready for slaughter.
KA43 signaled towards the platform.
KA7 raised a hand. “Silence,” he yelled. “Silence.”
Cheers faded. The captives whimpered and sobbed.
“My brothers,” KA7 called out from the platform, “it’s with pleasure I present to you,” he turned to the Supreme Leader, arm outstretched, “our Regal Lord, K…A…One!”
KA1 walked to the platform’s edge to stand alongside KA7, and despite his short and thin stature, dwarfed him with his presence. He raised a hand to acknowledge the black army. They roared, a thunderous crescendo. He lowered it, the storm subsided.
“Thank you, Master of Ceremonies, for the kind introduction,” KA1’s strong voice filled the shelter. “Thank you, our soldiers, my fellow guardians of all things pure, for your warm welcome. I am most grateful.” He paused while they cheered. “I cherish this opportunity to reward excellent work as we strive towards our ultimate goal. And believe me, brothers, the better world we desire, shall be achieved!”
The black army roared.
“Thank you, Supreme Leader.” KA7 turned to the black army. “I’m pleased to present our ceremonial team leaders for this month.” He pointed down towards KA43. “Please welcome, from Target Acquisition Unit seventy-five...Captain KA forty-three, and,” he paused for effect, like a UFC ring announcer, “Lance Corporal, K...A… two, zero, seven!”
KA43 and KA207 raised their hands to acknowledge the cheers.
KA7 raised his, and the noise ceased.
KA43 stepped along the line of naked girls. He entered corral number three, stood alongside the girl and twisted chains, so she spun to face the black army. He placed a hand on the bag covering her head. The black army hushed in depraved anticipation. He pulled the bag away and threw it on the floor.
Nadia Tindall gasped. Her wide eyes blinked rapidly, her mouth gaped. The black army’s wolf whistles bounced from one side of the shelter to the other.
KA43 cradled her chin in one hand and squeezed it while he admired her beauty. He ran fingers down her wet spine. She tried to spin away, but he held the chains tight to stop her. She screamed a fearful cry that echoed along the corrals.
KA43 smirked and beckoned KA207 to join him.
Nadia struggled against the chains. “What are you freaks doing to me?”
KA43 looked to KA1 on the platform, who nodded. The black army fell silent.
“Fireman, are you ready?” KA43 called out.
The Fireman strode forward from near the furnace. He held a metal rod in front of him.
“Fireman! Fireman!” The black army chanted, their boots stamping on concrete to the beat of a death march.
KA43 took the rod from the Fireman. He thrust it upwards, the chanting reached a wild crescendo. He instructed KA207 to hold Nadia.
KA207 released the shackles around her wrists. He held her hands behind her head then bent her forward at the waist. She bucked and screamed and kicked her chained legs. Other girls in the corrals screamed with her. After a minute she stopped fighting. She sighed and dropped her chin to chest, as though surrendering to fate.
KA43 moved into position behind her limp body. He studied the rod’s candescent tip, the branding iron. Its’ searing heat made his face tingle. He raised the rod above his head and peered down at her, eyes focused on the small of her back, a hunter with a spear who paused to take aim.
“Wait,” KA7 bellowed from the platform. “Wait.”
FIVE
Lionel Roberts sipped his drink, savored the bitter gin as it slid down his throat, then placed th
e glass on the side table. He sank into the leather armchair, hummed along to the Bob Marley tune coming through the speaker above him, and glanced around the soft-lit room. The African themed Rhino Bar, in the heart of Sydney’s law district, had become the watering hole of choice for its’ legal elite. On this Tuesday night, it was packed with a young and beautiful clientele of lawyers, solicitors, clerks and prosecutors. They buzzed in animated chatter.
He checked his phone. 10.17pm. Fred Klose had said he’d be there an hour ago. Doubt thudded against his chest, he sensed his friend wouldn’t show. Surely Fred had forgiven him? He hoped time passed had healed old wounds, but maybe it hadn’t?
He looked up from the phone and saw that his questions would soon be answered. Klose strode towards him in a tight-fitting shirt and jeans, a lean 6’2, his dazzling smile as wide as his broad shoulders. He rose to meet him. They hugged, thumped backs, then sat opposite each other.
“You slack son of a bitch, about time you invited me for a drink.” Klose grinned. “Is it true you’ve been back in the city for months?”
“Thanks for coming on such short notice...And sorry,I've been so busy in this new job.”
“But aren’t I your best buddy? Told me so in your text message, only two hours ago…”
Lionel knew to ignore his sarcastic sense of humor. “You always have been, always will be…” He called a waitress and ordered two gin tonics. He waited for her to leave, noticed Klose’s bulging biceps and remembered how to feed his ego. “Been working out, Fred? You’re still looking fit...”
Klose smirked and leaned back in the chair. “And you haven’t changed one bit either…Still long and gangly, crazy hair like Jimi Hendrix, a fat nose, and that piss-poor excuse for a goatee hanging from your chin. And hell dude, what’s with the all the grey bits?”
“I’m el naturale…” He pointed at Klose’s head. “Unlike some, I don’t ask my barber to lather me in peroxide…”
Two middle-aged men, they giggled like they had during their time as law students at Sydney University. They’d bonded from the start, drawn together by common interests and similar life stories.
Klose, like Lionel, had never known his Aboriginal mother. He’d shown Lionel a few pictures over the years and told what he knew of her. She’d been pretty, with a thin nose and fairer skin than most Kooris.
Klose had been raised by his father, Josef, a German immigrant who’d arrived in Australia in the late 1950’s. With blond hair, honey colored skin, a prominent nose and chiseled jaw, Fred resembled a Scandinavian snow-boarder. Few picked him as a half-caste Koori.
On completing their law degrees, they’d gone in separate directions. Lionel practiced law, Klose joined the Federal Police to enforce it. They’d kept in touch through emails and the odd phone call, but hadn’t seen each other for five years. Lionel knew the reason they’d drifted apart, but now wasn’t the time to discuss it.
“How are the Feds treating you?” he said. “Still working security detail for the Attorney General?”
“Nope, off that.”
Lionel sighed under his breath, it wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for. “Permanently?”
“Yep, bored stiff in our Sydney office for now,” Klose smirked. “Does have some benefits though…”
“I’m sure it does...” Lionel hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “Do you know Karen Flintoff, from the AG’s legal section?”
“Yep…” Klose locked hands behind his head. “Why?”
“How well do you know her?”
“Not very, and don’t see her much these days. She’s attached to the Pitt Street office.”
Lionel frowned. “Yes, she is.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Nothing…”
Klose leaned forward, his brown eyes probed Lionel’s face. “What’s going on, Lio? You’re being weird, bud.”
“Okay…I need your help and don’t know how to ask. It’s complicated, a very sensitive matter.”
“Bud, sensitive’s my middle name…Tell me.”
Lionel sucked a breath then let it out slowly. “Alright. Not long before I messaged you earlier, I received a call from Senator Nick Galios. Heard of him?”
“Yep, leader of the Greens, been around for ages. Always fucking up the policies of the major parties, right? Anti-police, anti-government. Bleeding heart refugee lover, from what I’ve read…”
“Not sure about that, but he’s a great man and one of few politicians who support the indigenous. Anyhow, he contacted me regarding an issue of great concern, and seems keen to shame the government once again.”
“In relation to?”
“Kate Bonnetti, immigration minister, told him the Police Force has terminated its’ investigation into the missing girls.”
“The Azelia taskforce? Fuck me, that’s insane.”
“Yes, seems they’re more interested in slaying imaginary terrorists…Nick is furious, fears they’ll start targeting all Muslims, and says we need to hold the government and police accountable for neglecting these girls.”
“Damn right…Through a public inquiry?”
“Yes, but as Nick rightly says, the Human Rights Commission won’t grant us one on the basis of missing girls. It’s too easy for the cops, in the current climate, to suggest terrorism is the greater concern…”
“Then how?”
“There’s been a significant increase in the reported abuse of Koori children in far-western communities, especially in the past year. We’ll focus on that.”
“You’ve lost me, bud... How does that help find the missing girls?”
“In the short term, it doesn’t. But if we can show the government and police have failed to deal with issues out west, we can secure a parliamentary inquiry to delve into it. From there we can broaden its’ scope, paint a picture of wide-scale neglect that puts pressure on the government to resume Azelia, and force them to do more about locating these girls.”
“It’s a solid plan…”
“And hopefully, going forward, it’ll promote positive changes to government thinking. We can make a real difference here, Fred.”
“Agreed…Why’d you ask about Karen Flintoff?”
Lionel hesitated, aware of the risks in trusting anyone but himself with the task. But what choice did he have?
“I need someone to dig for dirt on her,” he blurted.
Klose’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What’s she been up to?”
“Don’t know, and that’s my problem. Thought you were still guarding the Attorney General and had access to her...”
“Ah, now I get you. But isn’t she small fry?”
“Indeed…Yet, somehow, she’s on the AG’s panel that assesses all human rights related submissions, the requests for public inquiries.”
The waitress returned, smiled and handed them drinks.
Klose watched her saunter away. “Now that’s a great arse...”
Lionel nodded as he admired it, clicked his fingers in time to an unknown reggae song, then turned back to him. “What were we talking about?”
“The AG’s assessment panel…Who are the others on it?”
“Retired Judge Charles McKinlay’s the Chairman. And there’s John Sinclair.”
“McKinlay? He’ll be a bitch to get past, he seems to love the cops. Is Legal Aid supporting your submission?”
Lionel scoffed. “My boss is gutless, he’d never support it, and I don’t intend to inform anyone there about it. I’m a realist, Fred, who’s lived in this skin for long enough to know certain people there despise me and will do anything to see me fail.”
“Know what you’re saying, bud, people hate what they fear. And you’re their worst nightmare, a Koori bush lawyer looking to rock a boat that’s been anchored in calm waters for eons…”
Lionel smiled at the imagery. “Yes, ignorance is bliss…Luckily there are those like Galios to hold the powers that be accountable. He didn’t say too much but seems confident he can get Sinclair on our side. As y
ou say, McKinlay’s opposition is a given. It comes down to Flintoff’s vote. Get her, we get the inquiry.”
“Which is where I come in with the dirt?”
“Yes…Can you help me, Fred?”
Klose said nothing, face stern as a terracotta warrior.
Lionel waited, he’d soon know if he’d been forgiven.
After what seemed an eternity, Klose’s face broke into a smile. “You’re my brother from another mother, you know I’ll do what I can.”
Lionel exhaled towards the African sky. “Thankyou...”
Klose continued with child-like exuberance. “Luck happens to be on your side, buddy.”
Lionel leaned forward. “That so?”
“Yours truly is banging a hot little secretary from Flintoff’s office. Worst gossip in the department, hands down.”
“Sounds good, but won’t she wonder why you’re asking questions, and go straight to her?”
“Don’t worry, bud, she’s under my charming spell. And if there’s dirt to use on Flintoff, she’ll know it.”
“Wait a minute, I said, dig, for dirt. Who said anything about, using it, against her?” Lionel cleared his throat to mimic a nineteenth-century English Lord. “That, my dear boy, would be blackmail, the pastime of scoundrels…”
“You serious?” Klose held his stomach, as though holding back laughter. “Your powers of manipulation are legendary. How else did you trump me at uni?” They both laughed. “Who digs for dirt without wanting to bury someone in it?”
Lionel spoke slow and deliberate. “You’re a special friend, and I appreciate it. Find what you can, the more shocking, the better…And thanks again.”
“For what, haven’t helped yet…”
“For your forgiveness. I know you loved Megan. We never meant to hurt you.”
Klose chortled, his face reddened. “That was what, six years ago? She’s old news, bud, have had plenty warming my bed since then. She chose you, simple...” He held his arms out. “And now, neither of us have her.”
“She’s married to a rich French guy in Paris, last I heard.”