by Peter Ness
‘Everyone knows it’s mined out and worthless. So that’s probably just wishful thinking—,’ Martin said, picking up the shiny Ming vase and gently, rotating it. His gloating eyes reflected back off the side of the vase. ‘Oh, by the way. I dropped in on the Pikawina Garage at Gandooree earlier. My mechanic said that your bulldozer’ll be ready to pick up on October 24,’ Martin said. ‘Look, I tell you what — if you toss in some vege’s and answer a simple question I’ll give you your weekly racing tips for free.’
Martin Dunbar then asked, off-handedly, if Cliff knew who helped Jack Thomas refinance his loan. Cliff shook his head with a frown. Of course not. If he knew he’d have told Martin already, that’s what friends are for. Martin handed him the racing list with a wry smile, slapping Cliff on the back, telling him they were sure winners this time.
Observing Martin’s reticence to take the painting and vase and his veiled attempts of trying to wriggle out of the deal, Cliff tossed in half a side of mutton, several dozen chook eggs and a bottle of fresh cow’s milk. Martin’s face soon perked up.
‘You were a great help, and are a real mate. Marj really loves your milk and veges,’ Martin said, shaking Cliff’s hand as he propped open his Jaguar door with a leg. ‘Oh. And you need to be a little more discrete,’ he hesitated. ‘The CIB were around my place the other day asking questions. They claim you have a fondness for little girls.’
‘Don’t look at me that way. It wasn’t me. Honestly,’ Cliff said astounded, throwing his hands in the air defensively. ‘I’m no killer. I never did nothing wrong.’
‘I believe you. Your secret is safe with me,’ Martin joked with a half-laugh. ‘Don’t worry Cliff, I never told them anything.’
As soon as Martin’s Jaguar had disappeared in the distance Cliff scurried guiltily down to check that his cellar door was locked, as if he were hiding something.
‘The light’s still on.’ He creaked opened the door. ‘Look. I told you not to come back here again. You have to leave. The police are onto you,’ Cliff said through the open doorway. ‘And, they are not the only ones.’
#
Cliff Horris crumpled up his empty beer can one-handed and hurled it into the dead ashes of the fireplace. He popped the ring off another beer. What a relief. Now that his father was dead and buried Cliff was free to clear the rest of the crap out of the house without listening to him winging about how valuable the junk was. The smooth beer flowed down his parched throat, so he lent across and switched the fan on.
Cliff’s logic seemed simple enough. If he refused to provide the information Martin Dunbar would soon find someone who would. His neck burnt like hell again, like the hot sting of a wasp bite. He rubbed it, and then flicked blood off his finger. Anyway, he had done great out of the deal. It would cover this week’s gambling. Cliff could put eighty bucks on the trifecta and a few bucks on each of the other horses on the list. He’d even have enough left over to buy a few more cartons of this stuff. He sucked down another mouthful of smooth beer.
Martin had assured Cliff that it was a sure thing.
‘It’s a sure thing Cliff. You can’t lose on this deal,’ Martin had confirmed. ‘If at least one of the horses fail to pull through I’ll give you more tips next week at a steep discount on the usual fee,’ and Martin always kept his word. Cliff smiled to himself.
‘I’m so glad he’s a friend and not an enemy,’ Cliff crumpled the empty beer can in one hand and flipped it lightly into the old stone fireplace.
Opening another can of beer, he flicked the ring onto the mahogany coffee table, sat down on the couch and smiled broadly. What a top deal. He began to chuckle. He sure had taken his mate Martin Dunbar for a ride; what a gullible fool.
#
Martin Dunbar certainly was neither gullible or a fool. No opportunity escaped the clutch of his grasping fingers. As he drove down the road to his next port of call, Martin laughed heartily while whacking his hand on the steering console.
‘That so-called worthless Turner painting will net me close to a half a million bucks for sure, and the Ming vase — two hundred grand at least. I checked it out after an earlier visit. It’s genuine and worth a mint.’ Martin’s next mark was that Bill Thomas character. ‘That 1917 Model-T Ford in Bill’s barn is in as-new condition. Perhaps if I use it as leverage — claiming to take it off his hands to save him paying someone to take it to the dump — then he might feel obligated. It could make any negotiations with them, and my attempts to pry their land from their slippery grimy hands, just a little easier? The alternative may be to blackmail Bill, using his affair with that hotty Sue Melon as bait? But, if these idiots only knew what they’re sitting on,’ he chuckled to himself. An extension of the lead-zinc mine near Ashton Hani’s house continued below Jack Henton’s property. ‘But, if they’re drilling holes they may know already?’
Martin glanced in his rear vision mirror at the borrowed copper and gold geochemical soil and drill hole sample assay data reports which lay in a neat bundle on the back seat.
‘As for Bill Thomas, his land covers some of the best quality brown coal deposits that this state has on offer,’ Martin Dunbar gloated, laughing loudly above the roar of his big green Jaguar, as he headed back down the calcrete infected track towards the town we call a city. ‘Yes, now all I need is some leverage over either Jesse or Ashton Hani. Ah, Ashton likes a drop of the hard stuff, an advantage for sure,’ he grunted.
Suddenly, his eyes flashed, the solution dawned on Martin and his fingers began strumming the side window.
‘Yes. That’s it,’ He smashed his hand down onto the dashboard, grinning in delight. Martin had an idea. ‘Yes, now that’s a thought — that might do the trick. The best way to force them to sell out is to work on their fear of the unknown — UFOs and crop circles—,’ as per the local gossip. ‘Those things just don’t exist. It’s all bullshit. Hmm. I wonder whether Rich can rustle up his gang of thugs to help send the fear of god into these folks? A few dead cows, a few crop circles, things that go bump in the night and — they’ll be in a panic to sell out in a mighty hurry. I’ll have them eating out of my hand like babies. The women and children will see to that even if the men don’t buckle.’ He felt better already. ‘Let’s celebrate,’ Martin said, ripping the wrapper off a chocolate bar and stuffing the end into his smiling mouth.
#
That night Martin met with his son Rich to arrange it. They discussed things in great detail, over a map hastily pulled up over the lounge room table, using chess pieces to depict their various battle strategies. The locals were just pawns, and their land was Martin’s for the taking. Timing is everything. It could not fail. Yes, he had a plan.
‘This plan is infallible. They’re just pawns for the taking,’ Rich said, laughing at his own witty joke. Holding a pawn up between his two fingers Martin suddenly snapped it in half, tossing it into the open fireplace. Both men chuckled. Picking up their beer mugs they clapped them together to celebrate their pending victory and sucked the smooth cool beer down their dry, parched throats.
‘Martin, Rich, dinner is served,’ Marj yelled in the background.
‘Oh. By the way, I told Cliff Horris that his little secret is out,’ Martin yelled back.
‘You did. Did you?’ she stuck her head around the doorway in alarm. ‘What little secret?’
#
London: Mid-August 2012
Peter grabbed at Andrea’s leg. She jumped into the air, dropping the book.
‘What’s up now, Peter? Are you hungry again?’
‘That man is really horrid,’ Peter said. ‘I hate him.’
‘You’re supposed to. He’s the bad guy,’ Andrea replied with a wry smile. ‘Sorry, I lost the page. Where’d I say we were at? The UFO landing? That looks like the next chapter. I wonder what that’s about? Oh, that’s right: there’s a small note on the side of the page. It says that it’s about a newspaper article the men at the fuel station were reading. What men? When? We haven’t gotten to that part
yet.’
‘I wanna go to the toilet,’ Peter said.
‘Okay, hurry up then,’ Andrea said. ‘I’ll just scan the next chapter to see what it’s about while I’m waiting.’
Chapter 14: UFO Landing
Same day, on Cassiopeia Farm:
The noise of the Ford tractor was deafening as it chuffed around the paddock on the south side of the T-junction track to our house, which intersecting the road from Gullabilly National Park. White and grey smoke billowed up out of the tractor’s exhaust, rolling in gusts with the breeze. The tractor drew up with a groan. Leaving it idling, Dad jumped off. Trouncing over to the Datsun utility he drew the water bag off of the front grill, lifted it to his mouth and sucked in the cool water. Meanwhile, Ashton leant back against the back of the utility rolling a rare smoke. Lighting it now, he sucked on it. Then he blew a smoke ring. His hand slid into his pocket feeling for his Port wine flask.
‘Ah. Found it.’ He shook it. ‘Darn! Blast, it’s empty,’ Ashton complained. Then he rummaged through the back of the cabin searching for a bottle of the fine stuff.
‘I warned you to lay off the booze,’ Dad grunted back.
Those clouds are ominous,’ Ashton said emerging empty handed, nodding towards the dark cumulonimbus clouds stacking up on the western sky.
‘We’d better finish baling this Lucerne today,’ Dad said, passing the hessian water bag across to Ashton. ‘We can bale the oats in the Ghost House paddock next week.’
The birds in the trees by a nearby fence suddenly squawked loudly, flapping into the air and making a ruckus. Reacting instantly, both brothers dove to the ground landing on their stomachs. Water dribbled out of the hessian water bag, quickly sucked up by the parched loamy soil. Reaching across, Ashton righted the bag and did the cap up. Then he followed Jesse and slowly clambered to his feet, dusting off the dirt.
‘Old habits die hard,’ Dad said with a light-hearted, embarrassed laugh.
‘Yes! Jesse. Just like Nam,’ Ashton agreed. He meant the Vietnam War. ‘Any sudden sound and we’d hit the deck. It was the only way not to die.’
‘Yes, I wonder what scared them though?’ Dad drawled, looking up at the circling birds.
The brothers slowly rotated, their eyes darting from side to side to see what could possibly have startled the birds. It could only be snakes or humans and it wasn’t hot enough for lots of snakes to be out in force just yet; they would just be curled up on rocks or in the sand taking in the sun.
‘What in the heck is that?’ Dad pointed, to the west. He lifted his hand, blocking the dazzling sunlight as the glare of the sun smote him in the face.
A shiny spinning disc-like object, not much larger than a family-sized car, hovered silently just over the tree line above the road on the other side of the paddock.
‘I’m not sure? Is that — military? What do you make of it Jesse?’ Ashton asked. His outstretched hand covered the sun’s glare as well as he searched for a clearer view.
‘Maybe it’s just the sun angle reflecting on the metal, but it sure looks like a flying saucer to me,’ Dad said. ‘The sun’s in my eyes, so I can’t be sure.’
‘Yes. It certainly does, but as you say it’s probably just be the angle we’re looking at it from,’ Ashton said, rather skeptical of stories of UFOs and little green men.
The shiny object wobbled erratically over the trees. Now flipping unstably from side to side it dipped down below the tree tops into the Ghost House paddock, disappearing from view. If they had the ability to look over the other side of the paddock, over the adjoining tree line to the west, they might have observed three children by the side of the road. A small girl crouched squatting on the ground poking at something in the middle of the road with a stick. Two teenage boys (Brian and I) stood fixated with mouths agape watching the craft as it brushed the top of the trees, rustling them. We watched it bounce around unstably from side to side as it slid down below the tree tops out of sight into the Ghost House paddock. And, then the noise of a vehicle purring up the road towards us from the direction of the bus stop distracted us.
Ashton and Dad both stood immobilized.
‘What on god’s green Earth is that?’ Ashton pondered, scratching his head.
Turning, trudging back to the tractor, Dad reached over and switched it off. The Ford tractor had no cab. The tractor spluttered as white smoke heaved into the air and the engine died. The air fell silent. The birds no longer squawked. The wind had died down, except for the eddy of a small whirlwind swirling across the paddock. Smashing into the hay baler it soon dissipated and died out. Then for several seconds, silence endured.
Ashton clipped the water bottle back onto the front of the Datsun grill, climbed in and turned the key. The starter motor whirled and the engine purred softly. The fan sucked air in through the car radiator cooling the water in the hessian bag. Dad climbed into the passenger seat, gently clicking the door shut. Ashton then crunched the vehicle into gear, driving it at a snail’s pace along the track towards the Ghost House paddock. It took several minutes to reach the gate.
Thick timber obscured the fence making it impossible for them to see through. The fence line ran east-west intersecting the Gullabilly National Park road to their right, not far from the children. As the Datsun idled up towards the gate its engine suddenly stalled.
‘Let’s walk from here,’ Ashton said as he opened his creaky door. The springs on the Datsun utility sighed with relief as the two men climbed out, leaving their doors wide open. Ashton reached back in taking a double-barreled shotgun from the back window rest behind the seat. Cocking it he drove in two shot gun cartridges and tucked another half dozen into his pockets.
‘Is that absolutely necessary?’ Dad questioned. ‘The kids are on their way home from school, so you need to be careful.’
‘Well, we’ve no idea who those critters are that landed Jesse. It might be the Japs, the Russians, the Chinese, or even the Yanks — but the crate that just landed looked more like a flying disc — so I’m not going into that paddock unarmed,’ Ashton replied. ‘No frigging way man! I just wish I had a machine gun.’
‘Okay! Okay. Whatever. Just don’t point it towards the road. We don’t where the kids are. They should be on their way home by now. And—, watch that you don’t shoot me neither.’ Dad’s death rays lashed out at Ashton’s back.
Reluctantly, Dad took an L1A1 0.762 SLR rifle, the Australian military version of the Belgian FN FAL rifle, off the rack behind the seat.
‘Tilt, cock, lock, look,’ he said, carrying out a routine safety check.
Filling its magazine now, Dad placed a box of spare bullets into the left side top pocket of his grey worn-out and frayed, greasy, oil-soaked overalls. Breaking a match in half he stuck it into the side of the rifle stock.
‘Does this make you feel any safer?’ Dad asked, holding the rifle up with a broad grin, pleased that he still remembered this old trick.
‘Now the SLR’ll fire automatically,’ Ashton said, ‘Very clever Jesse. Just like our baby brother Frankie did in Nam.’ His smile turned to a grimace. Raising his greasy hand he wiped an errant loose tear from a dusty eye. Ashton recalled the body bag containing few remaining body parts. He was never convinced that those parts belonged to Frankie. They may have belonged to some poor, napalmed, Vietnamese Ox. ‘It’d take more than Napalm to kill Frankie so we must’ve buried the Ox,’ Ashton murmured to himself. After that, he felt much better.
‘Sorry? What’d you say?’ Dad asked Ashton.
‘Nothing. It’s not important,’ Ashton replied.
Dad gently placed the SLR rifle on top of the Datsun bonnet, barrel facing away from either of them. He made sure that it never pointed towards either the house behind them or towards the main road to their right. Then, he reached into the Datsun to collect his frayed, battered, faded and often abused ex-army issue floppy hat from on the seat. He flicked it on the side of the utility to dust it off. Then after rubbing the sweat from his hair with his fre
e hand, he thrust the hat on. Picking the rifle up again Dad rotated the weapon so he could double check that the safety catch was still on lock.
Now they made their way forward. Jesse’s eyes flicked across the other side of the gate, analyzing the old abandoned and ramshackle rock-walled Ghost House with boarded up, broken windows. Only the kitchen window remained untouched, glinting in the sunlight. An old windmill just inside the gate, to their left, squatted above an open well. A barb-wire fence, designed to stop young children or sheep and cattle falling down the well, enclosed the windmill at its base. A pile of old rusted-out metal pipe lay strewn on the ground adjacent to the windmill, wedged in between the rusted body of an old Dodge car and a broken down tractor with metal wheels. The fuel tank of the tractor lay upended on the ground along with old cultivator tines and plough discs half covered in loamy sand. Long lush grass grew between the plough disks, covering the area around the windmill and building. The breeze picked up now. The windmill fan rotated with a squeaky groan. Then it began pumping with a dull monotonous thud, water sloshing in spurts into a nearby trough. Bees buzzed onto the water pipe lip trying to quench their thirst.
In the paddock a thick, lush, crop of golden-green oats fluttered back and forth like glistening waves rippling and rolling with the afternoon breeze. Already knee high, the heads were fully formed and flowering.
And then, their heads rotated slowly to their right. There, just in front of them not more than a football field away the sun glistened off a shiny, metallic, silvery-grey, disc-shaped object. The spacecraft perched on tripods, each extending roughly a meter or so below its base. A line of hieroglyphic markings just above the top lip caught their eyes. Red, violet and blue lights pulsated faintly around the edge of the disc.
‘Okay. Well, that’s something new,’ Dad ventured.
Three beings stood in a group just inside the opening to the craft, peering out. One of the creatures, female by the looks, stood a head and shoulder taller. This female, Mira, moved down the entrance ramp.