by Gary Gregor
“We’ve had two, that’s our limit,” Thomas said.
Frayne studied his empty can. “This stuff will never hurt us. It’s so low in alcohol it’s like having sex in a canoe – it’s fuckin’ near water!”
Thomas smiled and waved a hand at the pretty barmaid. “Okay,” he said. “Just one more.”
11
Tracy Cartwright had been teaching young children long enough to know that kids in the age group of her current students tend to lose concentration quickly. She subscribed to the modern theory that education had to be entertaining and perhaps the most difficult part of her job was keeping her students focused on what she was hoping to teach them long enough for them to grasp at least some small amount of knowledge of the subject.
Notwithstanding the associated difficulties, Tracy loved her job, always had, and could never see herself doing anything else. She was confident that in the time she had been at Haasts Bluff she had imparted an acceptable amount of learning upon her small class. And education she believed, was not just about mathematics, or spelling, or geography. Some of it, arguably a very important part of it, was about installing a sense of self-worth and self-belief in her charges sufficient to carry them into adolescence and beyond.
Poverty, unemployment, alcoholism and domestic disharmony along with numerous other demoralising life experiences, taken in isolation, can and very often does contribute to a rapid degradation of self-pride and self-worth. However, combine several, or indeed all of those things and impose them on one’s existence, and the results can be predictable, and almost always catastrophic in regards to family harmony.
Statistics would indicate that, per head of population, the crime rate in the Northern Territory across the broad spectrum of offences from misdemeanors to serious criminal offending was several times greater than the national average. Those very same statistics would also confirm that those responsible for the majority of crimes committed against society in the Territory came predominantly from a small minority of the aboriginal community.
Despite the enormous amount of tax payer’s money spent on all manner of assistance, including regular fortnightly welfare payments, housing, medical care, government funded counselling and education opportunities, the crime rate continued to climb.
There existed of course, a small, arguably well-meaning section of the white Australian community who considered the aboriginal community to be impoverished, disadvantaged and more than deserving of assistance; an opinion welcomed by many members of the indigenous population who subscribed to the belief that the tens-of-millions of dollars of government hand-outs to be their right. This was their land, their country, they were here long before the white man ever set foot in the Australia. When the ‘white fellas’, led by Captain James Cook, stepped ashore at Botany Bay on April 29th. 1770, it was considered, and still is by many, an invasion. An invasion for which they should be adequately compensated; every fortnight.
Tracy knew the divide between white and black Australians was wide and, in some areas of the country, growing wider. She also knew that she alone was never going to narrow the gap but was determined to never stop trying. She considered it a sad indictment of the failed policies of successive governments seemingly obsessed with solving the problem by throwing money at it. The Aboriginal race needed help and Tracy accepted that much of the assistance required necessitated a considerable financial contribution on behalf of the Australian tax payer, but she also believed it simply wasn’t helping. The more any man, black or white, gets for free, the more they seem to want. It was a perfectly natural and understandable reaction and the colour of a man’s skin was never going to change that thought process.
There were eleven students in Tracy’s class; six of whom were aboriginal. History would indicate most of the six, if not all, had a future dominated by poverty, alcohol and drug abuse, criminal offending and domestic and sexual violence. Like the vast majority of rational thinking Australians, it was an unacceptable scenario to anticipate but, it was what it was. Tracy, however, was not a quitter. Whatever the future held for her disadvantaged students, she would not give up. When her tenure at Haasts Bluff was up, she wanted to walk away satisfied she had given them at least a small glimmer of hope for a life better than those who came before them had endured.
Generally, young children of all cultures were a resilient and inventive lot when it came to amusing themselves. Although naïve in regards to what adulthood might hold for them, their innocence had to be one positive in what otherwise might be considered a glum and unproductive future. It was a sad fact, however, that most if not all of the aboriginal students in her class faced a future filled with hopelessness and despair and it was a blessing, she believed, that the naivety of their youth masked that prospect from them.
From her position, seated on the floor on one side of the locked door with her back against the wall, Tracy looked at the faces of her students. They had each selected a mattress and were seated on his, or her, chosen bed. Most talked quietly among themselves while others simply sat and stared around the room which had become their prison. Occasionally a head would turn and look at her with wide, curious, questioning eyes; eyes that sought her own, searching for answers, searching for guidance. Knowing she had no answers to their unspoken questions broke Tracy’s heart.
Now, although scared and confused, they were all a little more organised than when they were first brought to this strange, awful place. Each student had brought a light lunch with them as a requirement of the planning for a full day away from Haasts Bluff. Some were packed in small, plastic, sealed containers, others wrapped in cling-wrap and enclosed in zip-lock bags. But, all of the lunches were still on the bus.
Tracy organised the boys to bring the boxes of packaged food from the fourth room into the third. Then, after supervising a hand-washing parade in the adjacent room, Tracy had the children choose their preferred mattress and they all sat while she distributed food in the form of small, individual packets of dry cracker biscuits and single-serve tins of baked beans and fruit salad.
Fear can have an adverse effect on some people’s appetites and now biscuit packets and discarded, food cans containing remnants of partially eaten food lay scattered haphazardly about the floor close to where they sat. The room looked untidy, moreso than it did when they arrived, and Tracy knew she should instruct the children to clean up around them but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to order them to do so. It felt unfair to impart discipline upon them under the circumstances they found themselves in. But she had no way of knowing how long they were going to be held prisoner in this place and if she could not maintain some degree of order and control over her students the room would very soon descend into an unsightly depository for discarded rubbish.
In the cramped surroundings the smell of rotting food would soon become unbearably oppressive. There were two large rubbish receptacles in the adjacent room and later she would have the children discard the food they were not going to eat. For the moment, she decided to let them relax and adjust, if it was at all possible, to the prospect of spending days locked in this tiny space.
Many of the children, particularly the aboriginal children, had never been away from their homes. Most of them had, on different occasions, spent a day or two out in the desert surrounding Haasts Bluff but they were always accompanied by their parents or, at the very least, a senior member of their family. These were teaching excursions; teaching the young about their cultural heritage, how to hunt for and collect Bush Tucker, how to find water in the vast desert country that surrounded their home, how to build and light a fire without the benefit of matches, and how to survive in the rugged, isolated Australian outback. For the young indigenous children, it was like camping out and, when you’re young and spirited, who doesn’t like camping out?
As Tracy cast her eyes around the faces of her students, it struck her that although she saw fear in each of them, it seemed to be more pronounced in the white kids than it was in the bl
ack kids. It had to do with upbringing, she guessed. Indigenous children, particularly those born into underprivileged families and raised in remote communities, did not have the benefit of basic services and conveniences that those raised in an urban environment had at their fingertips as a matter of course. And, to some degree, the disadvantageous life they lived was the life they were born into; they knew no other.
Those who had never experienced a life of privilege and excess were never going to miss such a lifestyle, or perhaps even understand it. To most young aboriginal kids living in isolated areas of the country, life was not hard it was just the way it was. They knew nothing else. Many of them, the majority Tracy feared, would never know anything else. Sadly, the average life span of indigenous Australians was often twenty years or more less than that for white Australians. Medical services in remote communities had improved considerably over the years but were still way below that of major centres. Aboriginal Australians lived hard and died young. Tracy had long ago come to terms with the fact that she alone was never going to change that but she was going to make damn sure she had a bloody good crack at it. She lowered her head and surreptitiously wiped at a solitary tear perched in the corner of her eye, threatening to roll down her cheek.
Lucy Gunging was thought to be about eleven years old. She was a quiet, shy, young indigenous girl who came to Haasts Bluff from Alice Springs following the death of both her parents as a result of a horrific motor vehicle accident which left her an orphan. Reluctantly taken in by relatives from Haasts Bluff, relatives she had never met, Lucy’s age was a guess at best. No medical records which would indicate a date of birth were ever found and it was soon established that prior to her arrival Haasts Bluff it seemed she had never attended any school, anywhere. Her command of the English language was extremely limited and she was initially hopelessly inept at integrating into the school atmosphere; until she met Tracy Cartwright.
Although not desirable for a school teacher to form too strong an attachment to any student in their charge, Tracy couldn’t help but find Lucy simply adorable. She would never admit it but Lucy Gunging was her personal favorite. When Lucy spoke, which was not often, her head would drop, she would look at the ground in a submissive, defeatist manner and mumble softly in broken English, her voice barely audible. When she did look up, her eyes were big, round, brown orbs set deep in a chubby, angelic face. Tracy thought Lucy was perhaps the prettiest, most captivating aboriginal girl she had ever seen. Many unpaid hours of one-on-one tutoring in English and associated classroom subjects, together with advice and hands-on instruction in personal grooming and hygiene, saw Lucy slowly develop to a point where she was now a popular member of the small school faculty.
Sensing someone standing close, Tracy looked up. Lucy was standing in front of her, staring at her through those mesmerising eyes.
“What is it, Lucy?” Tracy asked.
“You cry, Miss Tracy?” Lucy asked softly.
Tracy reached out and gently pulled Lucy into her arms, holding her close. “No, Lucy, I’m not crying. I have something in my eye, that’s all.”
“Might be you be bit scared,” Lucy said in her soft, strangely comforting voice.
Tracy pulled her closer. “I’m fine, sweetheart. We are all going to be fine.”
“You can be little bit scared,” Lucy whispered. “Sometimes I be scared. Might be I can help you feel not scared.”
Right there and then, Tracy wanted to break down and really cry. She swallowed hard, fighting against, the urge to lose control of her emotions completely. She squeezed Lucy to her breast even tighter. Such words, spoken with the honesty, unadulterated innocence, and naivety of youth almost tipped her over the edge into the abyss of despair. Words Tracy would never have expected from a young aboriginal girl who’s past provided her with every reason in the world to be terrified of the unknown confronting them all filled Tracy with a love and admiration she struggled to comprehend.
Tracy gently pushed Lucy away and held her at arm’s length. “Thank you, Lucy. You have helped me already just by being you. Let’s go and sit with the others. Maybe we can sing some nice songs, or play some games. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Miss Tracy,” Lucy answered softly.
Craig Garrett sat on the edge of his camp stretcher and listened to the sounds coming from the locked room just a few metres in front of him. Impeded by the thick steel door separating him from his captives, the voices came to him muffled and indistinct, making it impossible to follow any particular conversation. It sounded like singing.
The nature of any conversation filtering through the heavy barrier was of no real concern to Garrett, however. He was concerned only that the teacher and her students remained compliant. Apart from some mild hysterics from the teacher at the beginning, particularly when she was being tied to the chair, there was no benefit to them to be anything other than compliant. They were trapped. Locked in the room and there was only one door out. He raised his eyes and focused on the door. The heavy hasp-and-staple bolt, fixed to both the door and the thick, steel door jamb, was secured by a large brass padlock. There were only two keys to the padlock and both were attached to a split-ring and lodged deep in the pocket of his trousers. He absently fingered the pocket, felt the keys through the heavy material, and nodded his head almost imperceptibly. Even if by some miracle, and it would have to be a miracle he thought, they were able to get out through the locked door, they would have to get passed him and then out through the first room, and into the unforgiving desert beyond. It was never going to happen.
As impossible as the concept of escape seemed to him, his thoughts drifted involuntarily to what he might do if, somehow, they were to come out through the door. Would he kill them? Could he kill them. He had killed a woman and her innocent child before; could he do it again?
The memory of that particular occasion was still very prominent in his mind. He would never forget it. It cost him his career; the only job he ever wanted. It was the reason he and his two friends were doing what they were doing. The very thought of killing the teacher and all eleven of her students himself was a prospect he had never considered; not once through the entire planning and execution phase of his scheme to have revenge against the government and achieve financial security. Killing them all was Liam Frayne’s job. Frayne was much better at it. Killing was as much a psychological act as it was physical and Frayne was capable of killing with zero regard for who the victim was and why he, or she, had to die. If one’s intent is to kill someone, it had to be easier when you don’t really care about the victim.
Frayne had not killed anyone since they all returned from Afghanistan and Garrett remembered just how excited his friend appeared to be when he elected to kill all of their captives when this thing was over and they could walk away very rich.
Both Garrett and Thomas objected to the idea of killing the hostage, it was a suggestion floated by Frayne when the three of them were alone and discussing the plan. Despite their objections, Garrett and Thomas agreed. It was important that none of the hostages could identify them.
All Garrett knew for certain was he could not do it himself. He was not even going to be there when it was done. He would leave Frayne alone inside the complex with the hostages and a high powered, semi-automatic rifle. Garrett and Thomas would wait in the get-away vehicle outside and Frayne would join them when it was done.
Alternatives were discussed, at length. But, when it came right down to it, there were none; at least none that were acceptable. If the plan was going to work it had to be foolproof. Every contingency had to be considered. If they got the money and simply walked away, leaving the teacher and her students alive, any one of the twelve captives could identify them if they were found before they succumbed to the pain and misery of starvation and thirst. If they were never found, they would all surely die a long, slow, miserable death when the food and water eventually ran out. Leaving them locked in the room was considered, albeit only briefly. Garrett wa
s vehemently opposed to the idea of a horrible, lingering, insufferable death. Craig Garrett may be many things but he was not a sadist. Dying is one thing; the manner of death is another.
All three men had killed before, but that was war. It was a matter of kill, or be killed. This was very different. All three men agreed, Frayne perhaps not as readily as Thomas and Garrett, but he agreed nonetheless. Still, the captives had to be disposed of. The risk of them being found and identifying their captors was too great. If they had to die, it was unanimously agreed a quick death had to be the better of two unpleasant options.
He turned his eyes away from the locked door and looked around the room. He remembered this place well. It was perfect for their purposes. It was isolated, abandoned, almost invisible from outside, and indeed from the air, and he was confident no one would think to search for the teacher and her class out here in such a desolate place.
Along with Frayne, Thomas, and the rest of his unit, he was here at Camp Lake Lewis prior to his deployment to Afghanistan. Three weeks of suffocating heat, dust, flies and combat maneuvers practiced ad nauseam. The “Top Secret” designation attached to the camp always aroused his curiosity; who on earth would ever want to voluntarily come to this place?
The infrastructure from those days was long gone now. The large, open-sided Mess tent was gone, the stinking, fly-infested, long-drop latrines were long ago dismantled and removed, the four-man accommodation tents were gone and, with the passage of time, the surrounding landscape had so successfully reverted to it’s former, natural state it seemed there had never been anything here but the heat, the dust and the flies.
